


Things I Know to be True

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove is Soft, Denial of Feelings, I've never written it before but I'm going to try, Inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, M/M, Max is protective, Self-Acceptance, Self-Hatred, Starting Over, Steve Harrington Being an Asshole, king steve, smutt???, the kind where Steve takes a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26110183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: "Dear Ms. Maxine Mayfield:Billy Hargrove has had Steve Harrington erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again. Thank you.Starcourt Inc., 210 E. Grand St. New York, NY, 10019."(OR) the (loosely inspired) Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind AU nobody asked for.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Barbara "Barb" Holland, Steve Harrington/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 103





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pair this one with:  
> Silver Spring, by Fleetwood Mac
> 
> Another day another Stevie Nicks. You know me well enough by now ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi this is incredibly self-serving and indulgent. I have about a million and three things to write for school; I'm a black studies major and I have to give a speech on Saturday night, I have to create a five minute play for a directing seminar, I'm designing three shows. So many responsibilities but guess what!!!
> 
> This AU is going to write itself. Please make sure to let me know if you enjoy the first chapter!  
> Alright lysm bye

**After.**

Steve hops on the final train to Brooklyn with a scarf pulled up and around his ears. Winter in New York is brutal, _unrelenting_ with the kind of cold that promenades and demands to be seen. The snow and ice settle into the bones of the city like a sickness. People duck in and out of buildings with urgency and desperation, pausing only to comment on the chill. 

_Man, it’s really coming down out_ _there!_ The people report.

Winter in New York is something that demands to be talked about, to be loved deeply like a knife in the back or a smashed window under bare feet. Not enjoyed, per say, but...respected. Revered.

Steve has trouble understanding how people don’t see past the emptiness of the season, though he used to be like that too. Weak, docile, as if being out in the cold would only freeze him solid; as if swallowing glaciers couldn't possibly be the most beautiful thing on Earth.

Billy had shown him that winter could be perfect. Bright hot and wonderful, like summer, which was not a lesson he had expected to learn from Mr. California himself. It took Steve a long time to appreciate the change in the seasons; many midnight escapades in the North Eastern cold with Billy’s warm fingers trailing up his back. Steve’s a Midwestern boy, after all, he should have a handle on it by now.

Still, Winter in New York is unforgiving. It’s easy to get lost in that kind of cold when you don’t have someone to keep you warm, even if you’ve had practice.

Billy loves winter, and Steve had never expected that. 

Steve spends a lot of time outside with a scarf wrapped around his neck and wool socks on his feet (the ones that he stores in the oven) just to feel something, just to try and get over it. He used to think every season should be loved equally, but that's what you're supposed to think when you're in love. The chill used to be like an old friend now it’s just gray skies and toes the color of the ocean, since Billy left.

Empty, the exact language of a broken heart. Steve used to have someone to keep him warm, to help him find the beauty in the season. Now he pulls out all the stops, remembers all the tricks for staying warm on his own, the ones Billy had shown him for dreary midnight rides to Brooklyn.

They’ll be home. And even if they aren’t awake Steve _knows_ they’ll get up and let him in.

He takes his glove off with his teeth and dial’s their number, rocking from one foot to the other as the line snaps and cracks like fireworks in his ear. Steve holds his breath when the machine picks up.

“Hi, you’ve reached Maxine and Lucas.” The stupid thing declares joyfully. “We either fucking hate you or we’re asleep. Depending on the answer we’ll get back to you _or..._ we won’t. Deal with it.”

Steve waits impatiently and then leaves his message. “I’m on the train now, so. Hope you’re happy,” He leans back into the headrest, clenching his eyes against the frigid winter sky. “No one will tell me anything. And, I know you’ve _seen_ him, Max. Talked to him, at the very least, so don’t fucking--”

Steve clears his throat. Starts over.

“So yeah. The train. I should be banging on your door in about fifteen minutes and I’m not afraid to act like a dick in front of your neighbors, so you better tell me where he is. Don’t wanna fight, just. I need to know if he’s okay.” Steve wracks his brain for anything he might have missed. “I’m just. I'm worried fuckin' sick. Yeah, uh. See you soon.”

He hangs up the phone.

\--

Two weeks ago Billy disappeared without warning. Or, rather, it had _seemed_ that way at first. The whole thing dripped with Billy’s particular brand of impulsiveness, Steve thought, and though he dealt with Billy's usual hissy fits like a champ the signs had been glowing neon-bright in his face for months before that.

Steve wishes he had paid attention.

They fought. Always, _perpetually,_ like it was some sort of fucked up mating dance. Billy would _poke_ and Steve would _shove_ back. Just as biting, just as harsh until Billy had Steve bent over the kitchen counter with his pants around his ankles. 

It was just something they did, a language only they understood. Steve and Billy had been at each other’s throats for _years_ , ever since that cloudy afternoon in October when Billy rolled into Hawkins like a tornado in a glass jar.

Contained, measured, always boiling out of control just below the surface. He'd taken one look at Steve's pretty mouth and decided to stay away; that boy would be his undoing.

Billy didn't have much of a choice in the end.

If you ask either of them how it happened they would say that it was Steve’s fault for smashing that jar against the wall of Tina’s house with something as simple as his lips on Billy's throat, his chest. Steve tasted his skin for the first time and unknowingly set the tornado free.

It had destroyed everything.

They didn’t get together until years later. No, Steve had gotten scared and tried to play it straight for his early twenties, much to Billy's sniveling disappointment. Steve had called him a faggot and tore his hand away, hopped the train to New York and settled down with a woman named Veronica.

They were happy.

Steve had convinced himself that he was _happy,_ content. But then he crashed into Billy--covered in glitter and practically nothing else, gyrating his hips to a darkwave song under the neon-lights _\--Billy,_ Steve's 'one that got away.'

He bought him a drink. 'Just to catch up.'

They fucked against the wall in the bathroom that night and Steve had tried to run, tried to convince himself that it was just a one-time thing, that he couldn't _really_ fuck Billy and continue on with Veronica like nothing happened.

Still, he kept Billy’s phone number in his wallet.

After the second time they had a standing appointment; Steve would break Billy's heart and then ride him until he cried two nights later. It became a regular thing, for Steve, something that filled all the dark, lonely corners inside him.

Billy fucked like there was nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing.

He fucked with _fury,_ rage, marked Steve's skin like it was a blank wall meant to be scribbled all over. He fucked like he wanted to swallow Steve whole, like he wanted to work Veronica out of his system and erase his memory.

Billy fucked Steve like he wanted to ruin him.

It was addictive.

So, they kept in constant communication. Kept each other _warm_ for two years when Billy started to get jealous. Possessive. _I didn't expect for it to happen but I'm in love with you. It's me or your bitch. Pick one,_ He said.

Veronica was the golden girl, the one you settle down and have four kids with. Veronica was a boring life, a white picket fence and averted eyes. Gentle love-making on freshly cleaned sheets--she was girl scout cookies and Suburbia and misery. Veronica was safe.

Billy was _everything_. He was cigarettes at two a.m. and long conversations in the darkness. He was kisses that lit Steve on fire, Billy was passion and excitement--the beginning and the end. The first and last and always.

Billy was everything Steve wanted.

So he fucked those thoughts right out of Billy's head and it was never brought up again. Of course, that's when it all went to shit. Veronica started to notice the marks on Steve's skin. She never brought it up though he sometimes caught her staring in the mornings before he got dressed for work and that's when Steve knew; Veronica didn't love him.

It was Nancy Wheeler all over again only this time, Steve knew someone else out there who wanted to crawl inside his skin.

He called Billy and they rode each other in the back of his Cadillac until the sun shone dull and gray in the morning. Steve held Billy against his chest and said, into his mussy blond curls, "Let's do this for real."

Billy had blown right into Steve’s life and the rest? Well.

The rest is silence, you might say.

So Billy kissed him softly and Steve made room for him in his apartment, in his life. Reluctantly, at first, and then all at once when Billy showed he could be more than just an object Steve stuffed himself with to shine light in all the dark spaces.

_Maybe I thought you slept with someone. Isn’t that what you do to get them to like you?_

That’s what he’d said the night Billy left.

Steve fucked up and got his hands inside Billy’s chest, which he hadn’t done in years. Not since back-alleys and dirty hotel rooms. He poked at the Bad Thing in the center of Billy’s heart, the gaping black hole he had let Steve see sometimes, and that had been _it_. Billy packed the shit he kept in the drawer in Steve’s closet.

 _Don’t follow me._ He’d said.

But, of course, Steve followed him outside into the snow. Sloshing through brown New York sludge in sock feet, car keys in hand, desperation making him reek like a bag of garbage. 

Steve had gotten in his car and followed Billy down the street like he’d seen people do in the movies. Like he intended to do something about the whole thing. Like he could make Billy stay, somehow.

It hadn’t worked, though, because Steve is an idiot. Can’t read a room to save his life, never could. 

_Baby, come on. At least let me drive you home._ That’s what he’d said.

Billy called him a faggot and kept walking.

That was the last time they saw each other and Steve _knows_. He can fucking _feel it;_ Billy has been in touch with Max since that night. Knows it by the way she’s ignored Steve’s calls. Knows it by the way Max and Lucas are suddenly Never Home or available when they do pick up.

Steve can’t take it anymore, he just. Can’t.

“Keep the change,” Steve tells the cab driver, hopping into the frigid New York night before the car has come to a full stop. 

He takes the stairs two at a time and buzzes in, huffing impatiently when he is met with unrelenting silence. Steve checks his watch; _2:15._ They’re in college, so. Definitely awake.

“Max, come on. Just talk to me.” Steve barks. And then, softly; “Please. Billy’s gone. He’s _gone_ and when I showed up to his shift on Saturday at the bar he pretended he didn’t even know who I was and I. I don't understand what I--"

"The whole building doesn't need to _hear,_ kid," A gruff voice responds.

Steve lets go of the buzzer long enough for Max’s sleepy voice to filter through.

“Go away, shitbird. Not my problem.” She relents.

“But I--”

“ _Go away, Steve.”_ And then the intercom falls silent.

He immediately starts slapping the buzzer to the tune of _Don’t Go Breaking My Heart._ The same angry voice from before tells Max, begrudgingly, to _let the fucker in before I burn the building down._ Three seconds later he’s banging on door 305. It feels bizarre, formal, like Steve is a guest here. A stranger. Like he hasn't spent countless drunken nights in the homey Livingroom on Plymouth street with his head in Billy's lap.

That was a different lifetime, he supposes.

The door finally swings open and Steve frowns. “Where is he?”

“Um...Hi?” Lucas tries.

Steve shoulders past him into the den. Max sits, cranky and malleable on the recliner by the television, Billy's spitting image. "Fucking _so_ goddamn loud." She yawns. "This couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Steve spits. "That's hilarious, seeing how you _never_ pick up when I call anymore."

For half a second Steve feels bad about waking them up, causing such a ruckus when they likely have class tomorrow and all that, but then Lucas materializes next to him and says: "Wish you'd go chew on someone else's ear for a while." Like Steve didn't give him _endless_ help and _countless_ strings of advice when he was still trying to win Max over.

He frowns. "Spare me, just. Someone tell me what's going on."

"Oh, right, like opening channels of communication in your relationship is somehow my responsibility?" She stares at him, shakes her head with a smirk. "No fuckin' way, I've been listening to _both_ of you whine for weeks and neither has been able to grow a pair and just, I dunno, fuckin' _talk it through?"_

Max lights a cigarette. Steve almost has an aneurism. He wonders distantly if Billy knows his sister has started smoking again. 

"So you've heard from him?"

"Of course she's heard from him, Steve, they practically--"

 _"Lucas!"_ Max hisses. She tosses her lit cigarette at him like he just spilled the beans on something major. Something important.

Lucas flops onto the couch, throwing an arm over his face to block the the bright glow of the lamp. He exhales loudly through his nose. "Whatever," He says. "This whole thing is stupid anyway."

"What whole thing?" Steve asks flatly.

Max shoots daggers at Lucas again, like they received terrible news and had an arrangement not to talk about it. Especially not with Steve, if her groan is anything to by.

He tries again. _"What_ whole thing, Maxine."

She sucks on her cigarette. "Not really my place to say--"

"So you _do_ know why he hasn't spoken to me in weeks?" Steve scrubs a hand across his face. "Jesus _Christ_ you're so fucking selfish. The pair of you."

Max stares at him, mouth a thin line. She arranges her face carefully into that special mask of Hargrove-Mayfield indifference. "I'm sorry, Billy's the selfish one? Remind me, _who_ isn't respecting the desires of the person they _claim_ to love so much?"

That's a low blow, Steve knows, but he's also worried sick. He throws himself onto the couch, narrowly missing Lucas' feet when he tosses his head to rest on the back of the couch.

"Okay, I get it." Steve swallows thickly. "I'm a piece of shit, Billy used to tell me every chance he got, I just. You said it's his desire and I should respect it I just don't understand why. Why isn't he answering his phone when I call?"

Lucas sighs. "We aren't supposed to talk about it."

"Jesus _Christ_ babe, read a room." Max snarls. "It's not our secret to tell."

Steve makes prayer hands, leaning forward into her space in the way he knows she hates. "Max, please. He just up and fucking _left._ I mean, we had a fight but like--"

Max nods. 

Billy and Steve fight but it's not for real, they don't mean it, everyone knows that.

 _Billy_ knows that.

Steve sighs. "I've been trying to call him just to apologize for _whatever_ I fucking did and he won't answer. Bill always answers, Max. You know he always does."

She crushes the butt of her cigarette and considers him through narrowed eyes. 

"Maybe he's over you." Max says simply.

And that.

That fucking burns. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh you sad sap. You just expected him to let you drag his heart around for the rest of his life?" Her nostrils flare in a way that's so _Billy,_ so specifically him that Steve nearly drops dead in their living room. Max leans forward, elbows to knees. "Maybe he found someone better. Ever think of that?"

Steve watches as she lights another cigarette. It's not that Max dislikes him; she doesn't, she just isn't a fan of Billy and Steve together. 

If he's being honest with himself that distrust is earned. Steve's a piece of shit, that's been a fact for as long as he can remember.

But he loves Billy. He does, no matter what anyone else thinks. The thought that his blue-eyed boy ran off and fell in love with someone else?

Steve wants to throw himself out the window.

"No," He says. "No, I thought. I guess--"

"What, you thought he _loved_ you?" She sneers. "He does. But there comes a point when simply loving someone isn't enough."

Lucas sits up so fast that Steve nearly jumps out of his skin.

"For the love of--" He marches over to the desk in the corner and shuffles through a stack of envelopes. Max stares in horror when she realizes what's happening.

"Lucas, what are you--"

"He deserves to know, Max. I would wanna know." Lucas holds a piece of paper out to Steve, eyes dark and serious. "If it was you and me, I'd. I'd go out of my mind trying to fix it. Someone should tell him--"

Steve's lost. "Tell me _what,_ why is everyone speaking in riddles--"

Max snatches the paper from Lucas' hand and stares him down, the apex predator of 1430 Plymouth street. The tension is so thick that Steve can reach out in touch it when Max gets right up in Lucas' face and says: "We promised."

Like it's the most important thing in the world.

For five seconds Steve thinks Lucas is going to back down but he doesn't. He takes the paper from Max's shaky hand and says, "If it was me."

"What?" She asks quietly.

"If I ran away. If I decided to forget us, to forget you." Lucas puts his hands on either side of her face, a motion so gentle that Steve's teeth ache from the sweetness of it. "Wouldn't you want someone to give you an answer?"

Steve doesn't think it's going to work.

It _can't_ work, Max is Billy's sister, after all. And if there's anything Steve knows without a doubt it's that Billy can't be convinced. Billy can't be swayed, he sticks to his guns. That's one of the things Steve loves most about him.

He's just about to interject and ramp up the pressure when Max hands him the paper. She turns, cheeks flushed bright red, and slams their bedroom door behind her without another word.

"Real nice," Lucas calls gruffly. "That's _real_ nice, babe."

Steve stares at the card in his hands like it's made of glass.

_"Dear Ms. Maxine Mayfield:_  
_**Billy Hargrove** has had **Steve Harrington** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again. Thank you._  
_Starcourt Inc., 210 E. Grand St. New York, NY, 10019."_

He doesn't understand.

"I don't understand," Steve's lips say. He can't feel his arms. "Billy, he."

"...Got his mind wiped clean, yeah." Lucas whispers. "Guess it was just easier for him, you know. Not to say anything."

Easier for him.

To forget Steve. To forget everything.

He stands on shaky feet, the card crumpling in the fist he can't seem to let go of. "I, have to um. Go, I have--"

"Steve."

He keeps walking until the apartment door slams shut behind him, until the chill of February in New York bites at his nose and eyelashes. Until he collapses into the snow on the street and reads the card again under the distant haze of a streetlamp.

Billy had him erased.

Steve doesn't know what to do with himself.


	2. Trapeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) I'll do anything for a way out of my head
> 
> Pair this one with:  
> Come Back to Earth, by (the late, great) Mac Miller 
> 
> The song used in this chapter is:  
> Tear You Apart, by She Wants Revenge
> 
> This chapter is long. whoops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's what you truly want ... I can wear her skin over mine. Her hair over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti. Her scalp, a cap. Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph, all three of us. Immortalized ... you and your perfect girl.  
> I don't know when love became elusive. What I know is, no one I know has it. My father's arms around my mother's neck. I think of lovers as trees ... growing to and from one another. Searching for the same light.  
> Why can't you see me? Why can't you see me? Why can't you see me? Everyone else can.

**After.**

The waiting room smelled of rose petals, thick and unrelenting like perfume in a morgue. Embalming fluid. It smelled vaguely of piss, too, Steve thought, but that might have been the toddler bouncing on the knee of the lady next to him as he sat, frigid and grumpy on the uncomfortable fold-out chairs. 

Steve liked kids once they knew how to do more than shit and scream and blow spit bubbles. 

Before that, well.

He shuffled closer to the wall and farther from the diaper demon as it made another pair of grabby hands at his copy of _the Picture of Dorian Grey._

“Sorry,” The baby's mom said, catching the kid’s tiny hand and bringing it to her mouth for a chaste, easy kiss across his knuckles. “Sam must like you, he doesn’t normally like to talk to strangers.”

“Was he speaking?” Steve flipped the page in his book and tried to end the conversation there, voice flat and aggressive. He had learned through many-a-visit to doctors offices that being an asshole to strangers usually did the trick.

He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

The woman laughed anyway. “You’d be surprised. This little bastard never shuts up. Do ya sam-I-am?”

She stared Sam in the face and spoke in a baby voice for that last bit. It was annoying and kind of sweet when the baby gargled on spit and grinned up at Steve like he hung the moon.

He instantly wanted to clap his hands over his ears.

Steve didn’t, though. Smiled politely is what he did. And then, out of pure curiosity and _nothing else,_ “How old is the brat?”

She laughed again. “Twenty four months.”

“So, two years?” He glanced sideways at her, smirking. “Why don’t you just say that, then? I’ve never understood why people--”

“You seem tense.” She stated flatly. Like she knew Steve, like they were friends. The woman grabbed Sam’s arms as if on instinct when he started crawling into Steve’s lap.

People who are in charge of babies always moved that way, like robots. The baby could be firing a machine gun and it wouldn’t phase them.

“Well. Yeah, Starcourt is like an evil scientist corporate overlord, right?” Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Natural to be a little nervous.”

“You don’t believe in Dr. Anderson’s method?” She asked. “Why are you here, then? If you don’t mind us asking, of course.”

 _Us._ Steve rolled his eyes as Sam stared at him inquisitively. 

Expressive little shit.

“Why are _you_ here?” He asked. The nurse came round just then to call someone into the back. A watery, snivelling woman of about fifty. She stood from her chair on wobbly legs and disappeared through the lime green door with the help of a male nurse.

Steve’s belly flattened like a punctured balloon.

“My husband killed himself last year.” The woman next to him said.

Steve instantly felt like an asshole. “Oh my god. _Fuck,_ I’m--”

“It’s okay, really.” But it wasn’t. 

Her voice was trembling, eyes welling up so they looked like waves in the ocean. Steve swallowed against the urge to hold her hand, to make it go away. The woman shook her head. 

“He had cancer, so. Little Sam was born and Joel got diagnosed the week after his first birthday. We decided not to do chemotherapy. Just rots the brain, makes everything _worse,_ so. I thought he was going to wait it out, but.” She made a grab for Sam again, who leaned forward to yank on Steve’s sweater. He smiled.

The kid was growing on him, like a fungus.

“He shot himself.” The woman said finally.

And Steve didn’t know what to say as she wiped her tears away with one hand and held onto her baby with the other.

She didn’t seem like the kind of person who liked to dwell.

Didn’t strike Steve as someone who thrived on empty apologies, so. 

He nodded at the baby, mouth taking off without him. “Can I hold the little brat?” Steve asked. “Or would that be…?”

“Sure, go ahead.” The woman said thickly. She chuckled as Sam launched himself into Steve’s arms, climbing up his chest like Steve was a tree.

Would be a better view on the top of his head, he supposed.

Steve couldn’t help but laugh when the brat went directly for his hair, tiny baby fists yanking on his perfectly quaffed mane.

“Woah, there. _Buckaroo.”_ Why did he say that? Steve had _never_ said that before and he instantly felt like a dingus but the woman laughed anyway.

It made Steve feel better.

“Think maybe he’s been waiting to do that since you sat down.”

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled. Sam eventually settled himself and tugged at _the Picture of Dorian Grey,_ shoving one of the soft corners into his mouth. 

Steve gagged inwardly, but.

It was kind of cute.

“Do you have any kids?” The woman asked softly. 

Steve bounced the baby on his knee, relishing the watery giggle that escaped from his cherub face. “No. My partner and I talked about it, once or twice but.” Sam flopped his head against Steve’s chest and yawned, big and loud.

Suddenly Steve was fighting tears. Beating them away with a spiked bat as the woman nodded solemnly. 

“Are they why you’re here?”

Steve rocked the kid back and forth. He didn’t want to talk about Billy; after all he’d have to go over all that shit with Dr. Anderson. For his file, or whatever, and the last few weeks had been painful enough, but.

Sam nuzzled his head into the bend in Steve’s arm and he realized that nothing he was going through could be worse than a baby growing up in the world without his father.

Steve shrugged again, careful not to wake the kid. “I was an asshole. Never appreciated him, never treated him right, so. Guess you could say I had it coming when he, uh.” Steve gestured around the waiting room. The woman nodded sagely--everyone was there for the same thing

“That’s awful--”

“Like I said,” Steve stared straight forward at the painting on the wall. “I deserve what I got.”

“Aw, I’m sure that’s not--”

Steve clenched his teeth. “Listen, I don’t want to be an asshole or anything, but. I don’t feel like talking about that. With you. Sorry, it’s just. Too painful, I guess.” 

Sam gargled in his sleep and Steve moved to hand him back to his mother. She shook her head, smiling softly. “That’s okay. He hasn’t slept all day, no matter _what,_ so. Would you mind holding him little a while longer?”

And maybe the kid didn’t smell _too much_ like piss up close, so. 

Steve nodded politely.

The lapsed into comfortable silence then. Steve reading his book with one hand and holding the baby with the other when the nurse appeared like an omen of death.

“Steve Harrington?” She called into the room.

“That’s me.” He said too loudly. Sam startled out of sleep and made grabby hands for his mom. She took him from Steve gently and studied him with kind eyes.

“Thanks for letting me, like. Hold your baby? I guess?” 

They chuckled together for a moment. Like old friends. Steve rubbed his thighs and stood on shaky legs. Suddenly the last thing he wanted to do was follow the pretty nurse through that shitty lime green door. Sam's mom seemed to notice.

She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

“What’s your name?” He asked. The nurse was tapping her foot, like she was performing a tiny drum solo.

“Clementine.” The woman next to him said. 

Steve nodded. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks,” She stood with Sam perched on her hip and tugged nervously at a strand of hair. “Hey, um. I know you didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but.”

Steve kept nodding, like an idiot.

Clementine smiled at him. “Good luck in there. I hope you find your peace.”

Steve nodded again and waved good-bye to his new friends. The lime green door swung open like the gates of hell and Steve willed his heart to slow. To beat against all odds.

_Peace._

The word tickled the edges of his mind. He could get used to it.

\--

Dr. Anderson’s office was beige--from the paneled walls to the carpet to the furniture to the art pieces tacked _to_ those shitty walls--Steve felt like he had stopped existing as soon as the door shut behind him.

Swallowed up by horrible emptiness.

The doctor shook his hand--Steve’s was sweaty, his was limp and cold--and gestured for Steve to take a seat in one of the boring chairs in front of his desk.

“No thanks, I’ll stand.” Steve said. 

Like a fucking dumbass.

Dr. Anderson smiled thinly. “You might want to re-think that, Mr. Harrington. This is going to be a long meeting.”

Transparent. Okay, Steve could do transparency.

He sat in the chair and immediately started bouncing his leg, thumping it lightly against the hideous upholstered arm. 

Shaking his leg was a nervous tick his mother had tried to smother out of him when he was younger. The doctor who diagnosed him with the anxiety disorder said it was a sign that an attack was coming.

A panic attack.

Steve had already had three that week, so. What was another?

Dr. Anderson opened a manila envelope and pressed _record_ on a cassette player. He cleared his throat, took a sip from the beige mug on his desk and said, thinly; 

“Doctor Michael Charles Anderson. The date is January the Twentieth, Nineteen Ninety-Seven. The time: three twelve p.m.” Steve felt like he was guest starring in a poorly written made for T.V. movie about government experiments. 

He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Dr. Anderson continued. “Sitting across from me is patient--” a look through the file. “24604. Otherwise known as--” He gestured loosely, expecting Steve to say something. 

Steve jolted to life, leaning toward the desk as if to speak more clearly. “Uh. Steve.”

The doctor smiled encouragingly. It didn’t work.

“Full name, please, Steve.”

“Sure, uh. Steven Patrick Harrington.”

Dr. Anderson nodded. “Steve scheduled his procedure after learning of his partner, a mister, uh--” more shuffling through the file. 

Steve bit at the skin around his thumb. “William Hargrove.”

“Yes, thank you. A mister William Hargrove--Steve learned that his partner, Mister Hargrove, had him erased from his long-term memory.”

Steve tasted blood in his mouth.

He would give anything to get this part over with.

“Now, Mister Harrington. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here today?” Dr. Anderson asked, patient watery eyes trained on Steve’s in what he sure the doctor thought was an open expression.

“What do you mean, I.” Steve shook his head. “Billy cut me out of his life and I, uh. I don’t think I’ll be able to um.”

“Go on?”

Steve winced. “Look, do we have to talk about this? Can’t we just--” He gestured, reminiscent of Dr. Anderson before. “Can’t we get onto the next part?”

The Doctor clicked his pen in rapid succession, frowning deeply.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Harrington. The procedure only works if we know which memories to extract.”

Steve blinked, confused. 

“What?”

“Yes. You’re here because you want to get rid of the bad parts, right? The unsavory moments.” He waited for Steve to nod. Then; “The only way this operation will be successful, the only way you’ll stop hurting, is if you tell me what happened.”

“With Billy?” Steve’s voice sounded weak, even to his own ears.

The doctor smiled again. “Yes.” He said gruffly. “With Billy.”

And Steve didn’t like how Dr. Anderson said his name. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting, coming here. Maybe he’d hoped to meet a cool psychiatrist or something that would give him a swift right to the jaw and chop his brain in half on the spot.

Cut out all the rotten shit.

Maybe he’d expected to cry a little and then feel better, the presence of a professional enough to quell his spiraling depression.

Steve had expected anything, really.

But not this.

Not a pale, clammy man who looked like he’d never told a joke much less been in love, sitting behind his desk atop his high horse asking Steve to spill his guts right there in the open.

Right there at their first meeting.

Right _there,_ for the whole scientific community to hear on tape. He shook his head once, twice, clenching his eyes when Dr. Anderson began to protest.

“Now, Mr. Harrington--”

“Steve. You can, uh. Call me Steve.”

Dr. Anderson’s eyes softened considerably. “Steve,” He said simply. “Look, I know how difficult this must be for you. Mr. Hargrove breached your trust. He abandoned you and left no clues, no answers. You don’t know what’s happened to him, not really, and It’s been eating you alive, that right?”

All Steve could do was nod.

Didn’t trust his voice to stop from shaking. Didn’t trust the tears not to fall.

“I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through. My Charlotte and I have been together thirty years,” the Doctor said, sounding almost human. Almost earnest. “The simple fact of the matter is that Mr. Hargrove wasn’t happy in your relationship. I’m sure he himself was suffering and couldn’t handle the stress anymore, so he cooperated and let my team do its job.”

Dr. Anderson leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers together under his chin. “And do you know where Mr. Hargrove is now, Steve?”

“He, uh. Had me erased.” He mumbled. 

Saying the words out loud a second time felt like swallowing hot coals.

“That is right. Mr. Hargrove has touched that eternal sunshine, Mr. Harrington. Science has propelled us beyond simply suffering through heartache. The human race can be blissfully ignorant to that feeling, right now. _Today.”_ He grinned, eyes cold and dead. “All you have to do is answer a few questions, schedule your procedure, and it’ll all go away.” 

Steve nodded his head. “I, uh. Need that.”

“What do you need, Steven. Use your words.” Dr. Anderson gestured to the cassette player.

Steve hated that man.

“I need it to stop hurting so fucking much.” He said stiffly. 

Dr. Anderson threw his hands into the air, like _see! That wasn’t so hard!_ And picked up his pen, clicking it twice.

“Wonderful thing, science.” 

Yeah. Fucking wonderful.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Now then, why don’t you tell me how it all began?"

\--

**Before.**

Halloween in New York was special. While the holiday manifested in other parts of the world as Kid’s Club--candy and PG-13 scares and PTA sponsored spook fests _galore--_ in the city Halloween felt like stepping into a slasher flick.

Veronica was a stick in the mud when it came to partying.

She hated all holidays, as a rule, and especially despised Halloween because of the social obligations. Every year Robin and Barb invited them out for a night on the town ( _Come on, Dingus. We’re twenty-five, not a hundred)_ , and every year she turned them down.

“I have a deadline,” Veronica said that morning over breakfast.

“Bullshit.” Steve fiddled with his tie. He was already running late for work, but. What else was new. “Any editor who plans a deadline for November first, in New York, a.k.a party _central,_ is setting themselves up for failure.”

Veronica sipped her coffee. “Not necessarily. Some of us actually grew up, y’know? Graduated high school. Ever heard of it?”

“Hey, I graduated,” He chuckled. “Barely, but. I did. And I stopped partying long before that.”

“Not what Dustin reports, oh mighty King Steve.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “Oh like you don’t miss the days of trying to hit three keggers before curfew?”

She smiled, seemingly against her will. That cute little smile that was all plush pink lips and white teeth. 

Steve leaned down to kiss it off her face. 

Veronica made a noise in the back of her throat and then, without warning, pulled away. “Can’t we stay in tonight?”

Steve groaned, slipping into his jacket and checking his watch. “We stay in _every_ night, Nica. I cancel on Robin again I won’t have any friends left, and then you’ll be stuck with me for real.”

“Would that be so bad?” She grinned. “You know I don’t like to share.”

Steve kissed her again. When he pulled back she was thoughtful, considering. He ran a finger over the top bow of her lips.

Steve shrugged. “That new gay club in town is opening, I wanna check it out.” He said. Veronica raised her eyebrows at him.

“What, are you into guys all of a sudden?” 

“Not all of a sudden,” Steve said lightly. “You know I’m bisexual. That’s not a secret.”

Veronica’s mood instantly soured.

“Do we have to talk about that?”

And he didn’t like the way she said it. “What do you mean?”

She turned back to her laptop, typing furiously like the words couldn’t come fast enough. _“That,_ you know what I mean. The gay shit, you know I hate talking about that garbage.”

Steve chuckled. “We’re not talking about gay shit, babe, I just pointed out--”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I don’t always like to think about that.” She said bluntly. Veronica scrubbed a hand across her face. “Maybe I don’t like to think about sharing you. Not with anyone and _especially_ not another guy.”

He tried to ignore the uneasiness in his stomach.

“You know I’ve had boyfriends, Nica, that’s not a surprise.” Steve couldn’t help it. “Why are we even _talking_ about this? I’m yours, babe.”

“I don’t like to share, Steve,” Veronica said to herself. “I don’t even like to think about sharing.”

“Okay.”

Then, softly; “I’m going out with Robin and Barbra tonight,” He said. Steve pulled himself away and snatched his briefcase from its spot on the shelf. “Come or don’t, that’s up to you, but. I’m having one good night with my friends.”

Steve let the door click shut behind him.

Veronica had been weird about his sexuality for years and though he knew it was a little childish to get so upset, he was. 

Might as well be honest about it.

Steve was bisexual and his partner treated him like a leper because of it. He was getting too old to be treated like a freak. 

\--

Steve was drunk.

And hot. Sweltering, really, even in his flimsy Hawkin’s high basketball shorts and sweat band. 

And irritated. Because while Steve danced the night away with his friends at _the_ _Max,_ Veronica sat at the bar typing on her laptop like a fucking square. Ever the realest about her responsibilities and blah blah blah.

“Here you go, Michael Jordan,” A bartender said, sliding the glass toward Steve on the counter.

He downed his third shot of licorice sambuca in one go and clenched his eyes, grinning through the pain. 

“How’d you guess I was a basketball player?” He slurred.

“That ass in those Hawkin’s high shorts,” The bartender said. “Takes me back.”

It must have been the alcohol.

Or maybe the weed brownie Robin snuck him earlier.

Or just plain old wishful thinking because Steve _knew_ that voice from somewhere. That lazy drawl. The timber of it soaked right through to his bones and lit him from the inside out as he downed another shot.

Steve opened his eyes, expecting to be dead or in heaven or something, and nearly fell on his ass when familiar blue eyes devoured him whole.

Billy Hargrove.

Bare chested. Covered in glitter and sweat and grinning with eyeliner smudged around those blue gems. His hair was longer now, curlier. Tied back into a bun with a silver ribbon. 

Protruding from behind his shoulders were two sleek black angel wings. 

Billy Hargrove was dressed as an angel, but looked more fun than that under the smoky lights. Like he had stepped straight out of Steve’s filthiest, most shameful wet dream.

Steve watched as Billy’s tongue lulled out from his pretty pink lips. 

“Been a while, Harrington.” 

Steve needed him to get rid of that tongue immediately. Swallow it or something before Steve sucked it into his own mouth. 

“You’re here? How? Since when?” Steve prattled. “Why didn’t you look me up?” He leaned forward without realizing it, drawn to Billy like a magnet.

Billy poured him another shot, grinning. “Figured Id’ve run into you, before now.” Steve’s face caught on fire as those eyes searched him slowly, up and down and back up again. “Look good, pretty boy.”

“Thanks,” He muttered shyly. “You look like my wet dream.” His stupid brain reported. 

Steve felt his cheeks heat up again even though Billy chuckled darkly. 

“Could say the same about you.” He drawled.

And, okay.

Veronica was sitting on the other side of the room with her nose buried in her laptop, his faithful boring stick in the mud, and Steve _knew_ he shouldn’t be talking to Billy. 

Not when he looked like that.

Not when they were openly flirting at the bar like no time had passed. Not when he wanted to lick every square inch of Billy’s skin and--

No.

He nodded politely. “Well, thanks for the drinks.” Steve said. He downed the final one and thumbed over his shoulder to where Robin and Barb were gyrating on the dancefloor. “Duty calls, y’know.”

Billy nodded solemnly. “You here with someone?”

If that wasn’t a loaded question. Steve felt like lying. He didn’t know why, but. He didn’t want Billy to know about Veronica. About his boring life and his loveless relationship.

Didn’t want Billy to think about him fucking someone else, so he shook his head. “Just some friends.” His brain reported again.

_Nice job, fuckface._

Billy smirked. “Off in an hour. I’ll see you out there.”

Before Steve could say anything else Billy winked, tongue wagging sinfully, before he disappeared down the line of the bar.

Well, shit.

\--

Someone gave him acid.

He doesn’t know who. Doesn’t matter. Glitter falls from the sky and Steve tries to catch it in his mouth like snowflakes. 

He feels great.

 _So_ good, actually. It’s warm nestled like this in a wall of bodies, Robin and Barb dancing next to him under the hazy lights. The songs keep melting across the page, spilling one into the next in a stream of thumping bass and Frankenstein voices.

Steve takes his headband off and rubs it across his face. 

_Got a big plan, this mindset maybe it's right at the right place and right time, maybe tonight. And the whisper or handshake sending a sign, wanna make out and kiss hard, wait never mind…_

He likes this song. 

Fuck he wants to take off his pants and _kiss._

Robin slings her arms around his shoulders and they’re moving together. In and around each other as the fog rolls in. Steve jumps when Veronica appears next to him and says she’s grabbing a cab home.

Steve kisses her cheek and promises he’ll be home soon.

Someone gives him another tab of acid and he’s in Heaven.

_It's cute in a way, till you cannot speak and you leave to have a cigarette, your knees get weak. An escape is just a nod and a casual wave. Obsessed about it, heavy for the next two days…_

How long have they been listening to this song?

It doesn’t matter. Steve loves it.

He’s dancing with his arms around his chest when Billy pops into view. 

Feral and pale under the stage lights and fucking _breathtaking._ He’s moving his hips in a way that has to be illegal and Steve nearly doubles over with the urge to touch him.

To fuck his brains out.

To cut him open and crawl inside.

_It's only just a crush, it'll go away. It's just like all the others it'll go away, or maybe this is danger and he just don't know. You pray it all away but it continues to grow..._

Robin calls his name but his feet keep moving until Billy wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and then they’re dancing. 

Or swaying.

Or not moving at all. Maybe they’re just standing, staring into each other’s eyes, he doesn’t know. Billy’s lips move. 

He’s whispering something but Steve can’t hear him over the music that’s coming from all around him. From inside of him.

Steve yanks Billy forward by the hair. 

If he doesn’t kiss those lips _yesterday_ he’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor. 

_I want to hold you close. Skin pressed against me tight. Lie still, close your eyes girl, so lovely, it feels so right..._

The first lick of Billy’s tongue in his mouth is like a shot of heroin.

Steve’s never done heroin, but.

Instantly it’s not enough. 

_They took a step back, thought about it, what should they do, 'cause there's always repercussions when you're dating in school. But their lips met, and reservations started to pass whether this was just an evening or a thing that would last..._

Billy’s leading him off the dancefloor.

They’re in the tiny single stall bathroom and Steve’s sucking Billy’s dick and it tastes like cinnamon and cloves. Sweat and exertion and instantly he needs more.

So much more. 

He needs Billy’s hands in his hair, Billy moving in and out of him. Through him until they’re something new.

Something holy.

Billy’s got his hands in Steve’s pants and it feels good. _So_ good, actually, he’s never felt anything like it. 

“Pull your pants down, sweetheart.”

Steve does. And then Billy’s eating him out like he used to back in Hawkin’s, and just like that Steve is Seventeen again.

“I want you inside me,” He says. 

At least that’s what it sounds like, Steve isn’t sure. 

“Fuck.” 

Billy’s sticking his fingers with something and then Steve’s fucking himself on them. Wild, desperate, until strong hands pin him in place against the wall.

“Spread your legs.”

Steve does. He bites back a moan when the blunt head of Billy’s cock pushes inside him.

Steve shoots off immediately, hot white streaks against the dingy red wall. Billy’s breath ghosts across his neck, his hips press into Steve’s ass—stationary. Delicious.   
  


“Fuck, Steve. Needed me bad, huh?”

Steve cries out when Billy starts moving slowly, dragging over and through him like he’s something precious. His dick is already chubbing up again. “So bad, Bill,” he breathes. “Need you. Fuck, _harder.”_

Billy chuckles against the skins of Steve’s neck.

He’s given no time to prepare himself before Billy’s fucking into him, fast and desperate. Steve’s head is banging against the wall.

“Ow,” He says.

At least that’s what it sounds like.

”Shit, sweetheart. Forgot how tight you are, goddamn.”

Billy fucks him roughly and then tenderly, fast and then slow, peppering gentle kisses all along the back of Steve’s neck.

It feels.

Steve doesn’t have words for how it feels.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Billy says from somewhere inside Steve’s head. He’s fucking into him harder now, hips bucking. “Missed you, Stevie, _fuck.”_

Steve moans as Billy shoots off inside him.

“Oh my god,” He says thickly. Billy goes soft inside him and then pulls out, wrapping Steve in his arms. 

“Missed you, too, Bill.” He says.

And that, too, is a form of worship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having too much damn fun with this AU, guys. Also; lemme know how the smut read.  
> It was my first time ~really~ writing it and I'm nervous!
> 
> I made a mood board for this fic. Another first time thing. you can find it over on tumblr:  
> https://passivenovember.tumblr.com/post/628839117890961408/things-i-know-to-be-true-archive


	3. Where the Frightened Crawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pair this one with:  
> Your Dog, by Soccer Mommy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR:  
> Alcohol consumption  
> Recreational drug use (Acid, Marijuana)  
> More smut :^)
> 
> (god I'm so embarrassed Will It Ever End? Will I Ever Stop Being Such A Loser? No. I won't)  
> (also I feel a lil silly giving a warning for alcohol and drug use because, as Steve so eloquently put it in the elevator to hell; "I don't do drugs, it's just marijuana." But I'm trying to get better about warning y'all.)
> 
> please enjoy, love & appreciate you all sm okay bye

**After.**

Steve punched out every day at six like clockwork. Come what may, no matter how many papers he had to grade or what meetings he had to prepare for; the hour hand hit six and Steve was already moving through the main entrance and onto the busy streets of New York.

Some of the other professors thought Steve was lazy. As if actually having a life meant not caring about the students, but Steve had learned early on that boundaries are _good._ Important, vital even, if one wants to maintain any semblance of a healthy life. They did work with teenagers, after all. 

So he set his boundaries; stayed late to grade papers and keep an eye on the halls during after school activities and then as soon as the coast cleared Steve shouldered his way through the thralls of pissy teenagers as they threw _see you tomorrow, Mr. Harrington’s_ at him while he smiled through thin lips. Didn’t really have time to stop and chat.

Because Steve had a plan. An engagement, every night at six.

He hopped off the train and sprinted to his apartment to tack his briefcase on the knob by the door. Took a shower. Caught a nap and then hailed a cab to pick a table at _The Max._

That took commitment.

He always timed it so he was sliding into his booth just as the evening was starting to pick up. Always wore his tightest jeans, his fuzziest sweaters. Wanted to attract the right kind of attention, all _I’m here to find Mr. Right_.

It worked well at keeping the randos away, and there were a lot of them. Steve could have his pick of the litter, any guy or girl he wanted but. Regrettably, he was in love.

Steve went to see Billy. 

To _Spy_ on Billy, alright? 

No point in hiding the truth, just. Couldn’t fucking go to sleep without knowing if he was okay. Without seeing that smile to push him through the next twenty four hours until Steve’s next scheduled stake out.

And it didn’t hurt to bring the brass knuckles he always kept in his wallet, too. Just in case the right guy came along and Billy showed interest. Steve couldn’t bare the thought of that, of Billy fucking someone else. It kept him up at night.

It was getting pathetic.

And Steve didn’t _like_ feeling or appearing pathetic so he ordered expensive drinks and flirted with the waiters and prayed to every God who had ever fucking existed that Billy would open his mouth and speak.

That _this_ would be the night he’d finally notice, but. He never did. It was like getting Steve erased had completely destroyed every ounce of sexual attraction he’d ever harbored and okay. Touchy romantic bullshit aside?

Steve hated that the most.

That his body no longer seemed to have an effect. He’d sashay up to the counter in those jeans, the ones Billy used to fucking drool over, would stick his ass out as he ordered another cosmo and nothing. Billy would stare once or twice but he always got pulled away before anything could happen.

And Steve was a fucking whore for those moments. The electricity in the air, the feeling of Will They? Won’t They? The insatiable _yes, come take me baby_ jeans were finally going to pay off. They never did, but. Still--Steve came. Still held onto the hope that their love was in there somewhere, churning behind those bright blue eyes.

So every night he sat in the same booth.

Sometimes with friends, so he didn’t look desperate. Sometimes without. Dr. Anderson said it was a breech of the contract to bait Billy like this. To show up in places Steve knew he’d be. To play cat and mouse. _Mr. Hargrove made his decision, Steve. You must respect it._

Bullshit.

Steve ordered another Cosmo and went back to his table.

\--

“This is kind of getting pathetic.” Robin said helpfully. “You do realize having an entire relationship erased from your memory is like, the ultimate _leave me the fuck alone_ gesture, right? Maybe he just, and brace yourself, just doesn’t wanna fuckin’ see you again?”

Steve tore his eyes away from the bar. From Billy behind the bar--

And Billy’s curls tied into a bun.

And his arms under the lights--

To glare at his best friend. “Yeah. Think I got that part.”

“Then why are you still hanging on?” She poured the extra shot of lime into her drink and chewed at the rind, picking at it with her fingers. Steve wanted the barf.

“I’m not hanging on.”

“Um, ya kinda are, dipshit.” 

“Oh yeah?” Steve folded his arms across the tabletop. “And if Barbra suddenly decided to dump you. And get you erased from her memory. And fucking have _no reaction_ your ass in her favorite pair of pants--”

“We’re ace.” Barbara cut in.

Which Steve ignored. “You wouldn’t do everything you could to try and get her back?” This wasn’t really about them and they knew it. Robin held his stare, chewing at the skin on her inner cheek. 

“You’re insane.” She concluded thoughtfully.

And, yeah. He was, but what else was new? Steve rolled his eyes and turned to stare again at Billy; he was laughing at something. Someone. Steve had to swallow against the urge to run up to the bar, to stick his head against Billy’s chest so he could internalize the feeling of that laugh. Tuck it away for the thousands of sleepless nights ahead. 

It made him feel sick.

“I dunno. I kind of get it.” Barbra reasoned. Which was surprising because she didn’t really _get_ Steve or Billy or any of it. “He loves him.”

Like it really was all that simple. Like Steve didn’t use and abuse the emotion for three fucking years before Billy finally had enough.

Robin shook her head. “Steve doesn’t love anyone but himself.” 

And, okay. “Ouch.” He deadpanned. 

But; “It’s true,” Robin crunched loudly on a piece of ice, drawing Steve’s attention back to the table. “And you know I love you dingus, but. How many times did Billy ask--nay _beg_ \--for commitment, huh?”

Well--

“And _how_ many times did he make a fool of himself over you?”

Which, okay--

But Robin wasn’t finished. Far from it. “And how many times did Dustin and I nurse you back to health after every blowout fight even though they were pretty much _always_ your fault?” She shook her head. “Nah. From the bottom of my heart; he should’ve done it sooner.”

Steve couldn’t really argue with that. “Why do you think I’m getting the procedure done?” 

Barb leaned forward at that, eyes wide and shining behind her glasses. “Wait, you’re really going through with it?” She whispered. And Steve hated that, the way they both reaffirmed the contrasting beliefs in his head. 

Robin was the tough love. The self-hate, the admission of guilt.

Barb was the romantic. The hopeful song in the early morning. Steve wished they’d both just fuck off, but. “Yeah,” He snapped.

Barbra shook her head. “You can’t--”

“Oh, but he _can_ lover, and he will.” Robin waved at the bartender, gesturing for another drink. Her eyes flicked cautiously to Steve. “Gotta keep up this childish game of cat and mouse, right? Wouldn’t wanna lose, ‘s not even half time yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve snarled. But it didn’t come out that way; sounded more like a plea. 

A whimper. 

He wanted to bury himself alive.

“You know what I’m talking about. You and Billy, this fucked up hurt-and-be-hurt _bullshit_ you’ve been playing at for years. It’s just like when you asked Veronica to marry you and Billy slept with that gas station attendant,” Robin lit a cigarette, gesturing with it as she spoke. “He gets you erased so you hurt him back by doing the same thing. Billy knew this would happen-- ‘s all a part of your little game.”

Steve could practically see the wheels turning in Barbra’s head. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose, hands splayed across the table. “Wait, this is all some sort of fucked up ploy to get _even?”_ She shook her head in disbelief. “Is that healthy?”

Steve leaned forward. “I’m not doing this to get back at him, I’m--”

“What can I get started for ya?”

Billy suddenly appeared next to their table. Bright and happy, pink cheeked and perfect under the warm glow of the lights and Steve’s heart started beating in his fucking throat. It was happening--this was it. He tucked his hair behind his ears.

“I’ll uh--”

“He’ll take a water,” Robin concluded, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have two shots of tequila. Extra lime, straight up and uh--”

“Can do,” Billy smiled warmly at Steve like he'd ordered the shots. “Anything else?”

He said it to Steve.

Directly _at_ Steve like there was no one else at the table, eyes shining with something like recognition but not quite. Crinkling with lust, with something else, something--

“No, I’m uh.” Steve licked his lips, stomach flipping as Billy tracked the movement. “I’m okay.”

Billy grinned slowly. “You got it, pretty boy. Just gimme a holler if you change your mind, yeah? Here all night, so.” He winked.

And then he was gone. Steve’s lungs had stopped working, because. _Pretty boy._

Holy shit.

“Just because he pulled that fucking nickname out his ass, Steve--”

 _“I know,_ Robin, Jesus.” Steve glared at her, ignoring Barb’s soft eyes as she stared back sympathetically. “I’m not getting the procedure to get back at him, I just.” 

Steve ran a hand through his hair. Tore his eyes away from his exhausted friends to where Billy was working on Robin’s drink. Where he was stealing little glances at their table.

Fuck. 

“I just need it to stop hurting so much.”

\--

**Before.**

Billy pushed his finger past the tight little ring of muscle, keeping his come inside as Steve bent over to scrub their mess off the wall. 

He stopped, wet paper towel pinched tightly between two fingers as Billy gently fucked his hand in and out, in and out, expression slack jawed and glowing in the dingy bathroom mirror. 

Steve bit back a moan. “I’m, uh.” Billy curled his finger, brushing right against that little cluster of nerves and Steve nearly passed out from how good it felt. “I, uh. _Fuck,_ we gotta, uh--”

“Lemme eat you out some more, baby.”

Which. “You wanna?”

Billy nodded, eyes pinned to Steve’s reflection in the mirror like he was the last thing on Earth worth looking at. 

“Please. ‘S all I can fuckin’ think about, just.” He started swirling his finger around experimentally, watching with interest at whatever Stupid Thing was happening on Steve’s face. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Billy slid in another finger and.

“I uh,” Three fingers. Steve smashed his head against the wall to stop his legs from giving out. “Listen, I have friends here and I--”

“It’ll just take a minute.” Billy fell to the floor, knees cracking painfully against the exposed concrete. He spread Steve’s cheeks like it was the most normal thing on earth, and.

“Yeah, and I want you too, _Jesus,_ um.” Steve spun around and waddled away, tried to pull his pants up from around his ankles as Billy’s amused eyes devoured him whole. “Maybe we could, like. Grab a drink first?”

Billy sat back on his heels. “You wanna grab a drink?”

Steve tried to ignore the way Billy was obviously staring at his dick. He yanked the shorts up around his hips, fingers shaking against the elastic waistband. “Yeah, I haven’t. We haven’t seen each other in--”

“Four years.”

“Yeah.” Steve chuckled. Had it really been that long? “I wanna catch up.”

Billy stood, looking almost bored as he straightened his angel wings and swished water around in his mouth, washed his hands. He spit into the sink and wiped a hand across his face.

He was beautiful. So beautiful it almost hurt.

“Never really been much for talkin’,” Billy grumbled. His reflection eyed Steve--head to toe and back up again. He grinned. “Not when there’s so much fun to be had.”

Steve’s cheeks were on fire, he was fucking _sure_ of it. 

He ran a hand through his hair. A feeble attempt at fixing what he knew was probably a lost cause but it wasn’t like it mattered; Billy was staring at him like he’d fuck Steve regardless. No matter what, like it was a given.

The thought made him shiver. “Could be fun to catch up.”

Billy’s jaw worked. “So now all of a sudden you give a shit about what I’ve been up to the last four years?” Which.

“Huh?”

Billy turned, planting his hands on either side of the sink as he shrugged those muscular shoulders. Textbook forced relaxation, a Hargrove specialty. Steve knew it well. “Didn’t seem too eager to chat when you were dragging me into the bathroom.”

Steve blinked. “You dragged _me--”_

“Relax, Harrington. Just flippin’ your skirt up a little.” Billy grinned like a shark. Steve swallowed at whatever that was in his throat--nerves? Guilt? He remembered distantly that Veronica was waiting for him at home. 

Was probably fast asleep in their bed.

Had probably left a pillow on the couch for him, likely pissed that he’d elected to stay out instead of go home with her like always because, well. Shit happens. _Steve_ happens, when he’s drunk. 

Billy Hargrove reappeared and Steve couldn’t get a hold of himself, couldn’t keep his pants up or his legs together. Veronica knew it better than anyone, had worried over it that morning during breakfast and fuck. Steve wondered distantly why he didn’t regret this.

He wanted Billy.

As much as it said about him--that he was a whore, a shitty human being, a cheater--he did. 

God help him.

“Get a drink with me or don’t.” Steve shrugged, hyper aware of Billy’s come lodged somewhere warm and sticky. “Goin’ back to my friends.”

“Alright, Harrington.” Billy said loudly. He pushed himself off the sink hips first, shoulder checking Steve as he opened the bathroom door. “Buy me a drink.”

\--

As it turned out, buying Billy a drink meant travelling--tripping on acid and freezing his dick off, fuck you very much--to a secondary location. Namely, the 24 hour diner a couple blocks away. Billy walked five feet ahead the whole time, angel wings discarded and clenched tightly in his fist as Steve struggled to keep up. 

Everything was so beautiful when he was high. Twinkly and colorful and just  _ more;  _ the way the streetlights shined on the wet asphalt. The neon glow of the shop signs that lined the street. Steve couldn’t bring himself to care that Billy was obviously pissed off about something because it was  _ Billy. _

That guy was always flip flopping between emotions.

Steve had learned years ago that it was best to wait it out. Do his own thing, have his own fun until Billy eventually drowned the bad shit in something else--namely; coffee and eggs.

They sat in a tiny booth in the corner, knees brushing softly under the table as the waitress took their order. She kept smiling at Steve like he was saying something funny, only he  _ wasn’t-- _ he was mostly interested in getting a stack of pancakes in his system as soon as possible. 

The pictures on the wall were rearranging themselves, so.

He was definitely high. 

“Have that right out for ya, dumplin,’” She drawled, giving Steve a flirty little wink as she took their menus and disappeared behind the bar. It made him smile.

Billy, on the other hand, just seemed angrier.

Steve took the complimentary coloring book on the table and ripped it into even squares. Thought it best to let Billy break the tension. He folded the paper to and fro, focused entirely on the weird process his Nonna had shown him when he was younger. 

After a couple of tries it worked. Steve held out the tiny paper crane, grinning when Billy looked away. He was pink cheeked from having been caught staring. Steve slid it across the table at him.

“A peace offering.”

Billy snorted. He stared down at the origami bird like it was made of garbage. “Peace offering for  _ what,  _ dipshit?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sure I have something I never apologized for. Something I did that hurt you or pissed you off or--”

“Old shit’s old shit, Harrington.” Billy poured another packet of creamer into his mug, threatening his fingers around its ceramic warmth. “Don’t gotta apologize.”

Steve didn’t believe him.

He focused on drinking his own coffee. Then, because he genuinely  _ cared  _ or whatever; “What’ve you been up to these last four years?”

“You first.” Billy glared into his mug. “Still fucking that twig bitch? What was her name? Anna, Stephanie--?”

“Veronica.”

Should’ve guessed. Steve knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of Billy unless he gave something first, something that showed he wasn’t alone in his vulnerability. 

“Yeah, we’re um. Still together.” He winced at the flash of anger in Billy’s eyes. Expected to be knocked out or maybe even shamed for what had happened in the bathroom, but. Billy waited for him to continue. 

“We aren’t in love.” Steve didn’t know why he said it. 

“Since when have love and fucking ever been mutually exclusive?” Billy drawled, feigning boredom. “Just because you don’t love her doesn’t mean you don’t like to fuck her. That right?”

“I never said we were fucking.”

And it was true. They kissed sometimes, flirted even, like this morning when she made him feel like shit for things he had no control over. Steve liked their back and forth, found Veronica attractive and smart and pretty, but.

Billy snorted again, meaner this time. “So what, you just go around getting dicked down in every bathroom in town because Samantha won’t let you crawl between her legs once a month?”

“Her name’s Veronica.”

Billy smirked. “That’s what I said. Answer the question.”

Steve missed this, the way Billy could make him bleed without really trying. Something soft and fragile tugged at the edges of his glare, though, so Steve answered honestly.

“Don’t think I’d ever want anyone else’s dick.”

Billy stared at him for a minute, sizing him up in a way that put a basketball court under Steve’s feet. The waitress appeared with their order and they dug in, grateful for the warm meal, silently picking off each other's plates like they had all those years ago.

Steve handed over three pancakes and Billy gave him a slice of bacon.

It was nice, companionable. Eventually Billy swallowed and folded his hands together under the table. “I was prepared to never see you again, you know.”

And that caught Steve by surprise.

“Why are you in New York?” He asked. Billy’s eyes widened in offense.

“What, you think I fuckin’ moved here because of you and your twig bitch girlfriend Amanda?” Billy snarled. He shook his head, jaw working furiously. “Nah, I work part time at the bar and part time at a local radio station.”

Steve grinned. “That’s great!”

Billy mocked him, incessantly repeating Steve’s words in a tweaky little voice. His eyes are sparkling, though. Steve chose not to take offense as Billy tossed a napkin at his head.

“Yeah, it’s a cool gig. I get to berate the airways with Zeppelin and Aerosmith.” He took another sip of coffee. “Pisses the local mom’s off, I’ll tell you that much.”

Steve nodded. “And, uh. Got a partner?”

“What’s it to you?” Billy’s eyes glinted dangerously. Steve almost regretted asking, but.

“Maybe I’m jealous.” He teased. Wrong answer.

“I’m not the one with a bitch at home.” Billy leaned forward, cheeks hot and furious. “What’s Cameron gonna say when you tell her you fucked your high school sweetheart in the bathroom at a gay club.”

Steve shrugged. “Don’t care.”

And it was true. Fucking Billy was a shitty thing to do but, he didn’t regret it. Had maybe even been chasing the feeling since he left it all in Hawkins four years ago. 

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t care?”

“Nope.”

“Well what if I do?” He challenged. And Steve didn’t really have an answer for that. If Billy really cared that Steve had a girlfriend they wouldn’t be talking about it still. Wouldn’t be sharing pancakes and sipping from each other’s coffee mugs like those old couples who’ve eaten at the same diner every night for thirty years.

Steve smirked. “Do you?”

“Do I what, shitbird?”

Steve leaned into Billy’s space. He relished the blush working its way up that golden neck, tainting his cheeks as Steve ran a finger down the length of his throat. Gently, wouldn’t even notice if it weren’t for the electricity in the air.

“Do you care that I have a twig bitch girlfriend?”

Billy’s jaw worked furiously at that. His eyes zeroed in on Steve’s face as the waitress stuck the check on the table between them. Steve opened his wallet and tossed a wad of bills on top; it was probably enough to cover her rent for the next month but it didn’t matter.

Steve was trying to impress, after all.

Billy sighed. “You sayin’ you wanna do this again?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t mind leaving it in the past, if that’s what you want.”

“I ain’t gonna snitch on you, Harrington.” Billy spit. A challenge, a threat to rebuff. Steve wasn’t going to bite.

“Good.” He held Billy’s stare. 

They sat in silence for a while after that. Taking advantage of the free refills as the moon fell from the sky. It was well after four a.m. when Steve snuck off to the bathroom to wipe Billy’s come from his legs.

He felt slutty. Tried not to think about the way it made his stomach flip like a hot pancake with warmth and arousal. When he stumbled back to the table, crashing violently from his acid trip, Billy was gone.

So was the paper crane, he noticed. There was something else on the table, though. A note, scrawled in neat blocky handwriting:

_ I’m not saying I want to see you again, but.  _

_ Call me. _

_ Xx B 9175473390 _


	4. Big God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) my feet don't touch the floor
> 
> Pair this one with:  
> What Kind of Man, by Florence + the Machine
> 
> Another favorite. I had far too much coffee today and danced around the house in my underwear to this certified bop until I realized that I should never have that much coffee again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really made Veronica the most annoying person on earth lmao.  
> Sorry, but.  
> It is what it is! ¯\\_ (ツ)_/¯

**Before.**

And that slip of paper weighed as much as a car. A house, a mountain, a _planet,_ as Steve's life reverted back to dreary days and half-truths. It weighed him down until the waves lapped sweetly over his head and the light disappeared from the sky.

Until all he could think about was blue eyes and angel wings, dirty bathrooms and free refills.

Veronica had the nose of a blood hound.

Pure bred-insistent, ripe for the killing. She could sniff out a hook up from a mile away so Steve tip-toed around the apartment until he was positive that the coast was clear. Stayed late at work, coached the swim team, headed straight to the bar with Robin as soon as the sun set and made it home just as Veronica was dozing against her 500 count pillow case. 

Steve tried to keep her docile so she wouldn't start asking questions. 

He took the paper from his wallet and read it again. 

_I’m not saying I want to see you again, but._

He hid from himself. 

Jerked off to the memory of Billy's hands inside of him until he came so hard that his knees gave out, and.

_Call me._

_Xx B 9175473390_

He was guilty--but he couldn't bring himself to give up the ghost. Veronica didn't ask the questions so Steve didn't provide any answers; he kept himself busy so his hands stayed out of his pants. Ironed his suits to perfection and brushed his teeth fifteen times a day because he was _sure_ she could smell it on him.

The sex. The betrayal. The guilty, sticky-thick vibrancy of anticipation. The _will they-won't they_ feeling in the air as Steve folded and refolded the paper every night before bed. He took it out and stared at it. 

_I’m not saying I want to see you again, but._

Will they, won't they. He wanted to call. Wanted to scour every corner of the city, of the _earth,_ until Billy's bright eyes found his in the crowd but Veronica could smell it.

Steve knew she could. 

The desire. The need. So he ate Cheerios for breakfast and got to work early so they wouldn't run out of things to talk about over breakfast--so Veronica had no room to ask _why do you sleep in the guest room every night why can't you look me in the eyes why have we stopped saying I love you_

_where has the love gone?_

Veronica didn't ask questions so Steve didn't come up with answers.

He should've. 

He owed her that much.

Steve folded the paper in half again and again and again until it fit neatly inside his wallet. 

\--

"Am I supposed to ask where you've been all week?"

The question caught him off guard. 

It was the middle of the afternoon. A perfectly average Tuesday, and Steve had opted to sweat out his frustration instead of jerk it out like always. Opted to try something new because it had been weeks since he saw Billy on Halloween and his skin felt stretched too tightly over his bones with want. He needed to move, needed to get away before Veronica asked too many questions--

Before the sky fell. And she had hugged him goodbye, told him to have fun at the gym, asked what he wanted for dinner and. 

It had been too easy--he should have known.

Steve yanked the sweaty t-shirt up over his head and tried to stop his heart from crawling up his throat. He'd run out of excuses, distractions, that much was obvious as she stood like an immovable pillar in the doorway. Jaw set with that determination he had fallen in love with years ago.

There was nowhere left to run.

And Steve wanted to tell her the truth, but.

He was a coward, after all.

"Robin's been going through a tough time," Not a lie. A half truth, he supposed, just truthful enough to curb Veronica's searing questions but not specific. Not _honest._ Steve turned the water in the shower up as hot as it would go and focused on brushing his teeth.

On selling his grade-a bullshit story. Veronica's reflection watched him in the mirror, mouth a thin line, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

She wasn't buying it.

"Doesn't she have friends?" 

_Here we go._ Steve bit back a sigh.

"I'm her friend. Her best friend--" 

"Doesn't she have _Barb?"_ Veronica shook her head. "Why does she always run to _you_ when shit goes sideways."

As if Steve wasn't capable of handling other people's shit.

As if he wasn't capable of handling his own.

He shrugged, rinsed his toothbrush off in the trickle from the showerhead. "Just what friends are for."

"Doesn't it get exhausting?" Veronica picked at the red varnish on her index finger, a nervous tick she'd had for years. Veronica wasn't someone who had acquaintances outside her work at _Vanity Fair,_ much less friends. She didn't understand how it was possible to put someone else's needs before your own and sure enough;

"I don't understand how you do it. I mean, you work all day and drink with Robin all night, readily available for every whimsical _meltdown_ that comes her way and you--"

Steve threw his balled up t-shirt into the hamper under the sink. Waited for the chide, the remark of _this isn't high school basketball, Steven,_ but it never came. 

"You enable her." 

He sighed. "Do we have to talk about this again?" 

"Robin is codependent and you _enable_ it, Steve."

"Maybe I'm the one who's codependent." He thought of Nancy. Of how he'd been in high school--clingy and desperate and hilariously unable to spend any time alone. Robin wasn't like that. Wasn't like him, and instantly he withered under Veronica's judgmental stare. "Maybe I'm the one with the regularly scheduled meltdowns. Wouldn't be out of character."

Veronica shifted her weight, slipping farther into the room with curiosity. "What do you have to be insecure about?"

_I’m not saying I want to see you again, but._

"You'd be surprised."

Veronica held his gaze, bristling at the challenge.

And that's when it came together.

"What's this about, Nica? You're acting more--"

"Fuck this." She turned to leave, huffing as Steve reached out to clutch at her arm. They didn't touch, an unspoken rule that cut their lives clean down the middle. It happened slowly and then all at once, like a storm rolling into the harbor. One day they were in love, couldn't keep their hands off each other, and then--

He dropped his hand. "You just seem more _sensitive--"_

"The fuck's that supposed to mean," She snarled, and okay.

There were a lot of things Steve had loved about her back when they still qualified as a textbook perfect couple. Her intelligence, for one--the way her lip curled when she knew she was right about something--the fire coursing through her veins that consumed everything in its path.

Veronica was so easy to love when she wasn't angry about something and that insatiability had always reminded Steve of another blonde.

Echoed like the memory of his greatest love. The one that had fizzled out and slipped away, forever leaving holes in the walls of his heart. That's why he stuck around, he supposed.

To prove something to himself.

"You just seem upset, that's all." Steve worked to make his voice light and gentle, hyperaware that the pinch in her brow meant things would get worse before they got better. 

Veronica closed like a steel door. "I don't like sharing you--"

"I have to have _friends,_ Nica, this isn't high school, you can't just--"

"Robin is in love with you."

Which.

That was hilarious. 

Steve ran a hand across his face. Another thing; the jealousy _used_ to be kind of cute. The possessiveness welcome, even, after countless partners who treated him like he was an afterthought but that had been then and, well.

This was now.

Steve dug his shirt out of the hamper. "I don't understand what more she has to do. Robin's a _lesbian,_ Veronica." He tugged the damp fabric over his head, smoothing the hair behind his ears just for something to do. "They need to fuck in front of you? Is that what it'll take?"

She smirked. "It's not possible that she could be _bisexual?_ "

And he wasn't in the mood for this shit.

Not in the slightest.

Steve had to get out of here before he said something stupid--before he _did_ something stupid like break it off or punch a wall or punch _himself._ Steve shook his head and squeezed past her into the living room, snatching his wallet and keys off the table. Slamming the door against her inquiry of _where do you think you're going_. Taking the stairs two at a time. 

It had become ritual, he supposed.

Steve hailed a cab and went somewhere. _Anywhere,_ feeling trapped like a caged bird during rush hour until--

"Is there a payphone nearby?" 

The driver pulled into the parking lot of a 7/11 and Steve threw a wad of cash at him distantly, hopping to the ground like his ass was on fire. He pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his wallet, punching in the number on just the wrong side of urgent.

Billy picked up on the third ring. 

"Meet me at the diner." Steve said.

"Harrington?" He could almost taste the smirk on Billy's lips, the shock of his expressiveness dripping down Steve's like a tranquilizer. "To what do I--"

"Just." Steve took a deep breath. "Meet me at the diner on fifth, okay?"

The playfulness drained from Billy's voice like water from a tub. "Aren't you cute, makin' demands."

"Please." Steve leaned against the payphone, head buried uncomfortably against the plastic visor. "Please, I--"

"Why the fuck would I do that?" Billy snarled. "I'm not at your beck and call, you dick."

Steve sighed.

The only way he was going to get what he wanted was by doing what he couldn't with Veronica--telling the truth.

"I just. I just wanna see you. Buy you dinner."

Billy was quiet for so long that Steve thought the line had been disconnected. He focused on the thralls of people around him, the traffic of New York during rush hour until the gentle sound of Billy lighting a cigarette filtered through the cheap plastic phone.

"Just dinner?" He sounded skeptical, but.

Steve couldn't blame him. "Yes," He vowed. "Just dinner, I promise I--."

"Relax, Bambi, you had me at 'I wanna see you.'" Billy exhaled loudly into the receiver. Steve held his breath as Billy hopped around his room, by the sound of it, moving things and swearing. Pulling shirts on and taking them off again.

Finally, he sighed; "I'll meet you in ten, asshole."

And with that Billy hung up the phone.

**After.**

Robin and Barb tried to get him to leave, but.

He couldn't.

Too comfortable on the soft leather surface of the booth. Too enthralled by the vibrancy of the bar. Too drunk, he supposed, after three cosmopolitans and a Moscow mule.

And. Billy hadn't stopped stealing little glances at his table all night. Steve swallowed the rest of his drink and put his head in his hands.

Three more days and that was it.

He was due for his final appointment with Dr. Anderson in that horrible beige room on the lower Westside. At this time next week he'd be cured--Rid of his broken heart and all the shitty things that came with it. 

Fixed. Steve felt like his heart was shattering over and over again, but.

Wasn't that big of a change, really. Billy was memory at this point--a shining, gentle reminder that _yes,_ there was someone out there who could fall in love with Steve Harrington even though he devoured good intentions whole.

Even though he never appreciated that love when he had it.

Even though he destroyed the only good thing in his fucking life.

He stood on wobbly legs, vision blurred around the edges as he struggled to the bar for another drink.

Billy was on him in an instant. "Let me guess, you'll take a water?" Steve flinched at the way those blue eyes grew soft around the edges. Gentle. 

Steve shook his head. "Need 'nother drink."

"I know that look," Billy said. "Broken heart?"

Steve wanted to climb to the top of the Empire State Building and jump. Wanted to clutch at his shirt and scream. Never stop screaming even as the seasons changed and the earth kept turning.

He bit back tears. Didn't have to say anything as Billy nodded. 

"Well, I can't fix that for you, but I can see about getting you something to eat."

"Not hungry." Steve whined even as his stomach growled.

"Bullshit." Billy snorted, moving to fill a glass with water. "You haven't eaten all night, pretty boy. Gotta have something."

He shoved it across the bar at Steve, grinning as he struggled to grasp its slick surface. 

"Can take care of myself." Steve didn't want to be here anymore. 

Couldn't take it. 

"Keep on tellin' lies, Pinocchio. Your nose is growing."

Billy chuckled as Steve pawed frantically at his own nose, like it really was the size of a fucking football or something. There was an endless, terrible moment where Billy considered him. Eyes warm and round and _beautiful_ _,_ incredibly gentle, and.

Steve shook his head. "Don't wanna eat."

"Suit yourself." Billy said. He took a rag and scrubbed the countertop, biting back a smile. "You're kinda cute when you're bratty, anyone ever tell you that?"

Which.

"Yeah." Steve felt himself sniveling. Felt every memory of _you're such a fuckin' brat, princess_ and _love it when you stick that lip out_ come flooding into focus, choking and burning down his throat until he couldn't breathe, and.

Billy was staring at him like he almost remembered.

Three more days.

Steve had to get out of here. He took one final gulp from the glass and rubbed a hand across his mouth. Slapping a five on the table as Billy tripped over himself to make him stay.

"Wait, um." He blinked. Steve turned around, half expecting to be told off for crying in the bar like a loser. A lot of things had changed but that--the gentleness, the concern, it seems--hadn't.

Billy shrugged, "There's a diner down the street. I'm off in an hour if you wanna--"

"No thanks."

"You sure?" Billy grinned slowly, sweetly. He was flirting. "I've been told I'm an excellent listener."

And it was tempting to give in. Those blue eyes. Those pink lips. That tangle of blonde curls--Steve felt himself sinking further into devastation. In the recesses of his mind Dr. Anderson's words rang, harsh and vile in the fading light of the club.

_Mr. Hargrove made his decision, Steve. You must respect it._

Steve smiled. "It's late. I'd better, um." He had to get out of there. "Thanks anyway."

He let his feet carry him away.

Through the bar.

Out the door.

Down the street. Steve stood on the corner in the cold until a cab pulled to a stop in front of him.

Three more days.

Steve had to do what was best for himself.


	5. Down Comes the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) He asked me for my love, and that was all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR:  
> So much--  
> Angst :/

**Before.**

New York City was outlined in hues of silver and gold when the cab pulled to a shuddering stop in on fifth avenue. Billy stood on the corner, breath steaming in the late autumn air. Steve could tell, even through the grimy window and the thralls of rush hour, that he was pissed. Foot tapping, hands jammed roughly in the pockets of the denim jacket Steve had worn countless times in high school.

So much had changed since their time in Hawkins, _Billy_ had changed. Where sharp edges once lived unbridled and unapologetic, smooth lines flowed seamlessly from one landing to another. An old lady bumped into him and Billy reached out a hand to steady her, face lighting up in shades of amber as he mouthed his apologies.

Steve watched in surprise as he waved good-bye to the woman and smiled at those passing on the street, the warmth of it lighting Steve on fire, and.

He loved so much about New York.

Loved the way everyone existed one stacked on top of another, and another, and another still until the entire island moved and breathed as a single entity with one heartbeat. One will.

He adored the shitty-hole in the wall restaurants and the bizarre happenings on the street, but this.

He loved this the most.

The way hospitality was infectious when people were starved for it. How Billy could smile at onlookers and they’d do a double take, shocked by his beauty and aura. 

Steve knew the feeling.

Billy shoved his hand in his pocket and went back to waiting.

Steve wondered how long he could draw it out, having Billy strung out on him like this. Stood out in the cold, impatient for a shred of warmth. As if some part of Billy had always been waiting for the day when Steve would come home.

And Steve was content to bleed Billy dry. It felt special, he thought, to see Billy from the inside first. Before the walls closed in again.

"Listen kid." The driver turned to glare at Steve, cigarette flapping with each word. "Rush hour means big dough, alright? Either gimme another address or keep it moving."

Steve paid the man and stepped out onto the frigid sidewalk. Billy’s gentle, sweet smile was eclipsed by a mask of hard indifference as Steve approached on nervous, unsure feet.

Billy took a few steps forward, jaw sharp enough to cut glass when he demanded, "You been sittin' there for the last ten minutes?" Like there weren't a line of cabs just like Steve’s, restless to make their rounds about the city.

Steve smiled anyway. "Hey, how are--"

“What’s this about.” Billy spit. So that bad mood was coming off him in waves and Steve was helpless to do much else besides hold his breath

Drown in it. Great.

Steve cocked his head to the side, shuffling as groups of people parted around them like they were stones in a stream. 

Immovable. Constant.

“Just wanted to see you.” Steve said. "Couldn't stop thinking about you.”

Billy's mood only seemed to sour further at that. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, well. You wanted me, here I am."

Steve pursed his lips, eyes tracking the movement of something soft and gray under the worn line of denim against Billy's chest. He grinned. “Since when do you wear fuzzy sweaters?”

Billy yanked his jacket closed with a glare. “So you wanted to see me for? What. Just to make fun of my clothes?”

Good going, Steve. “No, I--”

“Fuck this,” Billy huffed. He turned on his heel, narrowly avoiding a lamppost when Steve reached out for him. Billy's eyes fell to Steve’s hand on his elbow. "Don't touch me." He said simply.

Calmly.

Steve felt like he’d fucked everything up, somehow, and it had been less than thirty seconds.

A new record. The expression _if looks could kill_ didn’t do it justice. Not even close as Steve obliged, yanking his hand away like he’d been burned.

“Sorry,” He hadn’t been aware touching was off the table. It was all he could think about since that night at the Max. “How’ve you been?”

Billy snorted. “That’s really the best you can do?”

And, okay.

Steve had _maybe_ been a little turned on by the attitude at first but he wasn't a fucking saint.

"Look, if you didn't wanna meet-"

Billy jerked his head toward the diner. "Fuckin' starving." He growled.

And then he was gone.

Steve watched him shoulder his way through the crowd. Watched Billy disappear through the pastel green doors like a bolt of lightening and wished, like _fuck,_ that he had thought it through before asking Billy to come here today.

\--

It was deja vu at its finest.

Billy ordered the same thing as last time. Poured far too much syrup on the pancakes Steve traded for three slices of bacon and they ate in silence. 

Uncomfortable, tense silence that sat like a pancake shaped rock in Steve’s belly.

He tried to initiate conversation. Tried to ask about Billy's life. His friends, Max and Lucas, his job at the radio station. Steve felt like he had missed so much and though he didn’t want to look too closely at _why,_ he ached to change it. 

To stake his claim again as a part of Billy’s world, but. 

Billy wasn’t having it. Seemed far more interested in pretending Steve didn't exist at all as they ate their Early Bird dinner, like they were two lovers who had run out of things to talk about years ago. 

And, they had, in a sense.

Steve wiped his mouth on a napkin, watching Billy wolf down the last of his pancakes. He ate with abandon, with his elbows on the table, syrup glued to the corners of his mouth and Steve had never seen anyone so cute. Anyone so vibrant. He bit back a smile and ordered a pot of coffee to quell the tension in his stomach. When he turned back around Billy was staring at him.

Pink cheeked, wide eyed _staring._

"What?" Steve demanded, pawing at his face in embarrassment. "Do I have syrup?"

"You actually want to be seen with me in public?" Billy said it like the whole thing was a wonder. Like _Steve_ was a wonder, and honestly? Steve was having trouble keeping up.

"Yeah, I. Jesus, Billy, I asked you to meet me here because I actually--"

"What _care_ about me?" Billy was sneering again.

Steve tried desperately to fix whatever he had broken. He wished Billy would stop that shit. "I care about what we could do for each other."

Billy downed the last of his coffee and poured himself another cup. "I don't follow."

And he said it like he definitely did follow. Like Steve was making perfect sense. 

Billy lifted the cup to his mouth with a petulant look of indifference. "Not sure what you could do for me that I can't already handle myself. And for half the bullshit, mind."

"And half the fun." Steve challenged.

Billy rolled his eyes at that, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. "You're an asshole."

"Nah, just perpetually right. It's a burden." Steve stole a swig from Billy's mug, dodging the flames that were breathed in his direction. “Is it so hard to believe that my intentions are good?"

Billy snatched the mug to his chest. "Since when have you ever thought for longer than two seconds about anyone but yourself?"

And it was a valid question. Burning, _searing_ really, in the heat of its truth but Steve had an answer for that. Just like with anything else, he. Was always prepared.

"Thought a lot about you." He said, unfazed.

"That so?"

"Yup." 

He had no words for the feeling it sent flooding through his veins, to watch Billy's defenses fall like the walls of Jericho. They went easy, only the gentle _puff-puff-puff_ of Billy's breath indicated their hasty destruction as he scrambled to pick up the pieces. 

"Me too. Been, uh." Billy turned to stare out the window. He was showing his hand, they both knew it. "Been thinkin' a lot. About, you. I guess." 

The deep pink blush on Billy's cheeks was the shade of every sunrise they had spent apart. It turned his freckles into cinnamon gumdrops, littering his cheeks and the bridge of his nose like an after thought. The exact hue of leftover affection. 

Steve wanted to lap it up with his tongue. Store the flavor in his gums. "That so?" 

Billy closed his eyes. "Yeah, I. 'S all I can think about." He breathed _in-out-in-out_ softly, like too much movement in the air around them would make Steve evaporate.

Disappear. Steve let his sneaker touch Billy's boot under the table. Gently, like a whisper in the night. Billy sucked in a wet, thick breath at the solid feeling of rubber against rubber. 

_Gotchca._

Steve leaned forward into the table, arms pressed uncomfortably against the edge as he searched Billy's face. "Good or bad?"

Billy's eyes were pinned him in an instant. "What?"

"You've been thinking about the Max." _Thinking about me._ Steve didn't say it but the words felt palpable in the spaces between them, regardless. He sat back in his chair. "Is what you're thinking good or bad?"

"What, you wanna talk about feelings all of a sudden?" Billy was back to sneering. He licked his lips, the blush returning to his cheeks at fifty-percent vibrancy. "'S not that simple?"

"How do you mean?"

"The whole _thing."_ Billy snapped. "Good and bad and _whatever,_ 's not. Not that simple." 

"But it could be."

"No." Billy said flatly. "It really couldn't." He lifted the mug to his lips again, an adamant signal that this branch of the conversation had come to an end, but.

Steve wasn't buying it. He focused on rolling his straw wrapper into a ball. Focused on the feel of the thin paper shifting against the pads of his fingers. If he wanted anything from Billy, anything that mattered, he was going to have to give something first. Some things never change.

"Look, Bills--"

"Billy." 

Steve sighed. "Right. Billy. Look, I appreciate you coming to meet me, I know I can be, uh. An asshole--"

"You're selling yourself short, Harrington." His voice was almost kind. Dripping in honey and laced with angry bees, all poised to sting, as his blue eyes glittered in the late afternoon sunlight. "You're lotsa things. A dickwad, scumfuck, douchebag, idiot, fuckface, dumbass--"

 _"Alright."_ Steve tossed the wrapper at him with a growl and then scrambled to play nice. He leaned forward again. Molded his eyes into something resembling inoncence--sincerity--as if they were made from wet clay. "I know I was a dickwad-scumfuck-douchebag-idiot-fuckface in the past--"

"You forgot dumbass." Now he was just teasing.

Steve felt a grin split his face in half anyway. "Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it." Billy's eyes were sparkling. Alight with something Steve couldn't quite place, like poking fun and watching Steve squirm was worth the five fifty in cab fare Billy had paid to get downtown. Billy nibbled at the skin on his index finger, tongue flicking out to wet the tip slowly, and Steve decided he'd take it.

If feeling just the tiniest bit stupid was what it took to fix what had been broken, to make sure Billy's careful smirk never gave way. Steve would lay himself down a thousand times over.

He cleared his throat. Tried a more direct approach. "I'm not the same guy I was five years ago."

Billy's face instantly darkened. "Right. Haven't heard that one before."

"Baby, you've never had anyone like me before." It was a leap. Steve felt eighty-percent ridiculous saying it, like he was a character in a porno or something, but that pretty pink blush was back in full swing. 

Steve ached to catch it in his fingers. To pocket it for a rainy day, add a little color to the sky, but. Just as quickly it was bleeding from the page. Billy sniffed, hard around the edges again. "Did I ever really have you?"

"You know you did."

"Bullshit."

"Billy, I--"

"That's a load of _shit_ Harrington, and you fuckin' know it, alright, so don't." Billy scrubbed a hand across his face. When he pulled it away again his expression was left raw and sore in the open air of the diner. 

He looked like he was going to cry.

Steve really hoped that wasn't going to happen. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, like a fish out of water, scrambling desperately for something to say. Billy tracked the movement twice before shaking his head. Chuckling dryly, _painfully,_ like his whole life was just one big joke after another. Like he was the butt of the thing every single time.

Billy's jaw worked, muscle ticking against the shadows on his face until; "Playing the straight boy for Ballerina Barbie not workin' out?"

"Billy--"

"That's what you're here for, isn't it? Bored of the dinner parties and the loveless sex so you called up a whore to do it for you?" He chuckled darkly, as if the entirety of their lives had done a round-a-bout to this moment. Like it had panned out exactly the way Billy had always believed it would. "Some things never change, Pretty Boy."

And.

"That's not--"

"'S okay." Billy said simply. "I know how the story ends. I've read this one before, remember? You yank the string and I follow, and then when you get tired of having a hand to hold you run back to the ice queen. Isn't that right?" When Billy leaned forward again that same blanket of green was clouding churning rivers as he waited for an alibi. A defense.

Steve didn't know how to handle it.

Billy had asked him to stay. 

_Would it really be so bad to hang around a little while longer?_

_Never thought I'd hear Billy Hargrove get on his knees for the sake of the Midwest._

_Shut up, asshole. Who else would I knock around, if you skipped town?_

Steve grinned. _Veronica wants to see the Empire State Building._

And Billy hated talking about Veronica. Hated the way her name sounded on Steve's lips; like bags of vomit hitting a concrete sidewalk. Billy's tears were the color of fresh streams. Forests in the Pacific Northwest, flecks of green perverted by desperation. They spilled over his cheeks all at once, river water parting around two fertile stones, and neither of them had expected it.

Steve tried to look away. _Veronica wants to see the lights._

_When I wanted to show the ocean you said we had to wait--_

_It's different with Nica, Bills. She's--_

_What, got tits? That make her better than me, or something?_

It hung in the air for a while after that. Blinding, the light that was suddenly shining on all the shadowy parts they had tried to ignore because being together felt too much like Heaven. Steve lit a joint, fingertips scraping against Billy's in a way that mimicked their own unique brand of throwing fists.

Then, thickly;

_You don't love her._

Steve rolled his eyes, shoulders tense. _Does it matter?_

_You said you don't love her, Steve. Doesn't that count for something?_

_What, you think I could love you in her place?_

Billy downed the rest of his coffee and slapped a twenty on the table. 

Steve jolted to back life. "I said I was taking you to dinner--"

"Whore can pay for himself." Billy sniffed. And then he was moving away. Through the diner, out the mint green doors and onto the street.

Leaving.

Steve scrambled after him, barely remembering to toss a fifty on the table top as he skidded across the checkered linoleum floor. Billy moved fast, shoulders hunched against the chill like it could somehow stave off the feeling Steve had given him.

And, it was hard to keep up.

Nearly impossible to discern the line of Billy's denim jacket as he was swallowed up by the crowd. Steve searched frantically for that head of mussy blonde curls. Careened his neck, peered through the haze of bodies until--

Billy rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

So Steve started running. Eyes laser focused on his exit, he ignored the protests of those unfortunate enough to get stuck in the way as Steve's feet carried him forward. Around the dingy brick wall and into--

An Alleyway.

Billy was smoking a cigarette with his sleeves rolled up. Steve had seen that stance before, knew what it lead to and still. "Why'd you run from me?"

Billy shrugged. He studied the wall in front of him, like the cracked red siding held the secrets to the universe. "Just returning the favor."

And Steve had thought about it a million times.

Since their encounter at the Max and long before it, deep in the still of the night with his hands down his pants. Billy on top of him, inside, unearthing the hidden things Steve worked so hard to bury in the dirt. He had been starving for years.

Crawling through the desert, sand digging into his skin as he searched for those blue eyes and the weight of his desire was like a mountain. Steve watched, helpless, as Billy stamped out his cigarette and removed his jacket. Let it fall to the dirty, piss stained ground.

All Steve's leftover affection, no matter how brass, felt like nothing compared to the look in Billy's eyes when he moved forward.

The pressure of his gaze while he backed Steve up against the wall, the one hidden from the view of the street, was heavier than the Earth itself. He rested the palms of his hands on either side of Steve's neck. Close enough that the hairs on Billy's arms brushed the tender flesh nestled under the collar of Steve's coat, and.

He didn't always know how to handle it. "You're not my whore, Billy."

"Bullshit." He was leaning forward. Brushing his lips against the shell of Steve's ear.

"It's true. I'd at least stick you in a hotel room, first. Pay you a little bit better--" 

"That so?" Billy said, almost meanly. He kissed the underside of Steve's jaw, wrenched his collar to the side to expose the gleaming, soft curve of Steve's neck.

"Yup." Steve let his eyes fall closed, lashes kissing the crest of his cheekbones when Billy's breath lapped over his throat in gentle waves.

Rising and falling.

Rising and falling until there was a hand on his neck. Squeezing, just hard enough to cut Steve's breath in half.

"You left me crying in the middle of the street like a goddamn Bitch, Harrington." Billy brought his lips to Steve's throat again. Licked and nipped at his jugular like he wanted to draw blood. Like he would, if Steve let him, and.

Steve would always let him.

Billy clenched his teeth. "Tell me what you want." He squeezed harder until Steve looked up to meet his eyes with a defiant stare.

Every thing he sacrificed to blue skies—

Every piece of honesty Steve gave away was a treasure chest of gold the exact color of Billy's hair. His skin.

Steve felt him inside and out, over and through, even now. 

He lifted a hand. Slow and steady, gentle, until his fingertips brushed the curve of Billy's cheek. It was dangerous. Less like going out of a limb during the height of summer and more like stepping on a twig to cross a churning river during a storm.

Steve had no proof Billy would be there to catch him and it was deserved.

But no matter how hard he searched for the words to rebuff, to deny, to push away and bite and claw and scratch until Billy was left licking his wounds in the piss stained alley, Steve could do nothing but let the night swallow him whole.

He grinned. "Been thinkin' about you."

And then they were kissing. Melting together into one celestial body until they were something new. 

Something holy.

Steve was a stained glass window and Billy was the sunlight. They had just never noticed before.

Steve tried not to get too attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut in the next chapter, I think. I just wanted to get this one up because it's been far too long, friends. Please stay safe out there!


	6. Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) I feel I need a little sympathy, baby

**After.**

Steve was laying in bed watching the sunlight inch across his ceiling when the banging started. 

It was loud and incessant, clearly the work of man who didn't value life or limb for waking the entire complex before the gray had bled from the sky. Steve sat up, rubbing against the dull ache in his skull.

The clock read _6:13._ In the fucking _morning._ Steve blinked, hyperaware that at any moment he'd be getting a call from one of his neighbors about the noise. Which was absolute bullshit, as if they weren't the devil incarnate--the worst neighbors on planet _Earth._

Mrs. Jalenski down the hall did jazzercise in her living room every Saturday at 7:30. The Reed's and their five children tormented the building with constant slews of birthday parties and sleepovers and don't even get him _started_ about Mr. Andrews' Yorke terrier who shit in the hallway when Andrews stepped out to grab his morning paper.

In full?

Steve was a good person.

One of the other assholes in his building could deal with it. He yawned, big and wet, before burrowing under the covers. Steve yanked the blanket over his head and started counting sheep, like the act alone could manifest absolute silence.

It didn't work.

The banging only got louder. More annoying. More _harsh_ so Steve sat up again, jamming his glasses onto his face.

"Yeah, okay." He said aloud, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down over his fists. The hardwood floor was like ice against his bare feet as he padded gingerly through the apartment. The huge, empty, _desolate_ apartment that had been his fortress when the presence of a certain blonde asshole made it into a home. 

Billy loved this fucking place.

Loved the kitchen, with is real wood countertops and the balcony that had a banister which sprouted _leaves_ when the weather was nice. The second Steve moved in Billy made a point to ensure he wasn't living like a college student. Shopped exclusively vintage to decorate the place, hung artwork and lighting fixtures _just so,_ threatening to chop Steve's fingers off if he so much as tried to rearrange. 

_Why don't you just move in,_ Steve had asked. He was always wondering, pushing, preening, _begging._

Billy would just wink and say; _Dump is already mine._ And it was true. Anyone who made it past the front door knew the apartment was Billy's. Sleek and dark and homey, like his scent, marked and graffitied so that even now Steve kept everything just as it was. Down to the cigarette Billy had put out on the coffee table when he left.

Steve couldn't bring himself to change it. 

This apartment was where Billy cooked Thanksgiving meals for the Party.

Where they brought home spoils from the Farmers Market on the rare Saturdays they weren't at each other's throats. They'd had a lot of happy moments, here, wrapped in each other's arms. Steve threw a hand over his eyes as he passed through the family room--the area of the apartment that was most uniquely _theirs._

Pale gray light filtered in through the bay windows which spanned from ceiling to floor.

Their oak sills and gigantic view of the city were a selling point when Steve and Billy first toured the place. Steve's real estate agent had a lot of shit to say about _the value of natural lighting on the human mind_ and the _once in a lifetime opportunity to make the place their own._

Steve had put Billy's name on the lease right away. Wanted him here, right under his nose where Steve could see him, but.

Billy never moved in.

It hurt to look at the curtains blocking the early morning sunlight as Steve hollered to whoever was banging on the door. It hurt more to leave the curtains open--filled him with false hope. Like maybe sunlight signaled the morning after a fight and Billy would be home by dinner, angrily banging pots and pans around the stove until Steve fucked every thought out of his head. Until they swept it under the rug and forgot about it.

Steve kept the curtains pulled these days. 

He yanked the front door open with a huff, half expecting a fire to meet him there. His building had open air hallways, walkups with stone awnings--all that rich people bullshit, and Steve felt like the sun was shining directly into his corneas as Dustin Henderson shoved his way into the apartment, a black trash bag clenched between both hands.

"Um. Hi?" Steve said intelligently.

Whatever was in the bag clanged noisily when Dustin tossed the thing onto the couch, narrowly missing the quilt Max had made Billy and Steve for Hanukkah last year. "Time to rejoin the world, asshole." 

"Are those Billy's potted plants?" Steve asked blearily. He was only half awake, alright?

Dustin kicked his shoes off, stepping out of his slip on vans by ruining the heels. "The plants are dead, Steve."

As if that was supposed to explain why he had dumped Billy's marigolds face first into a Great Value garbage bag. The door shut with a soft click. 

"I was gonna do that thing, you know." Steve adjusted his glasses and padded to the kitchen in search of coffee. If he had to be up he'd need some assistance. "What's that thing, where you put a teaspoon of sugar into a spray bottle or something?"

"I think you misunderstand my use of the phrase, 'your fucking plants are dead.'" Dustin sat at the island, hands already digging through the cookie jar Billy had kept fully stocked when he still lived here. "Dehydration can be solved with home remedies, if your plants are on the brink of death. Those things were twigs, Steve. That potted soil was like digging through a sand box."

Dustin's hands came away empty.

Steve was an emotional eater, alright, sue him. And Billy made the best white chocolate cherry cookies in New York. Henderson stalked over to the fridge, riffling past the endless boxes of take out until he came away with three pudding cups tucked under his arm. Steve watched him open the first and suck it completely dry in one go. Like some kind of animal. 

Steve put the kettle on. "I don't know shit about gardening."

"Obviously."

"Billy's the one with the green thumb." Steve dug through the utensil drawer, managing to find a single clean spoon. He tossed it toward Henderson and watched him fumble the thing to the ground. "He's gonna be pissed, you know. Pissed that you threw out his--"

Henderson dove to pick the spoon off the ground, not bothering to rinse it in the sink.

Which was a poor choice because Steve hadn't swept or mopped in months. Not since Billy--

"He's not coming back, why would he care?" Dustin said softly. Gently, like he knew how close Steve was to flying to pieces right there in the kitchen.

He must have connected with Robin sometime in the last few days.

"I know he's not coming back." Steve would deny that it was a whine. Would kick and scream and fight-fight-fight to keep his dignity, but.

Henderson's eyes softened around the edges, brown going from steely oak to warm honey at the timbre in Steve's voice.

Like he knew.

Like he understood.

"You need help packing his stuff away?" Dustin asked, and.

Steve nearly dropped the kettle on his foot from how quickly the feeling bled from his fingers. "What?"

Dustin opened the second pudding cup. Sucked it down with an obscene, wet slurping noise like Steve hadn't just made a spoon appear out of nowhere for the kid. 

"Dr. Anderson's guys are coming on Monday, right?" 

"Yeah, so?" Steve preoccupied himself with wiping the counters while the French press did its magic. He turned his back to the room so Dustin couldn't see his face. 

"You were supposed to start on this part of the process weeks ago. Did you even read the pamphlet they gave you?" Henderson chided.

Steve had.

And--he hadn't.

The scientists at Starcourt recommended putting everything that reminded him of his relationship with Billy into a box. Any item that elicited strong emotions--both good and bad--was to be set aside so they'd know which memories to get rid of. 

And Steve had tried. 

Had sat down on the floor of his living room after that first meeting with Dr. Anderson in his horrible beige office, curled up on the Victorian rug Billy spent half of Steve's Christmas bonus on because it _reminds me of your eyes, baby doll,_ a bottle of gin tucked against his lips while Steve stared at the physical manifestations of their life together.

Everything was connected, but.

Steve thought it was easiest to start with the little stuff. I.e., the denim jackets Billy had let him keep, the polaroid's he was obsessed with taking (most of which featured Steve being soft and malleable. _in love_ in front of the mirror as he got ready for work or laying bundled in their bed just before dawn). The Birthday presents and the special malt whiskies Billy set aside when they got in a new shipment at work because he knew they were Steve's favorite.

And it had been easy, at first, as easy as expected. Packing Billy into a box where everyone else said he belonged.

But then Steve started to see correlations.

Like how the hooks by the door felt barren and _wrong_ without a coat of denim pasted over the top. And how the picture frames on the walls looked stupid when the polaroid's were replaced with abstract prints Steve picked up from shops around town. Malt whiskey reminded him of the weekend they had spent antiquing, and then Steve thought about how his bedframe was a 24th birthday gift from Billy--flown in from Paris and _then_ Steve had thought about how much Billy loved him.

Was absolutely drowning in it, how much he wanted Steve to have nice things.

_Pretty things like you, baby._

And it all sharpened into blinding focus; the apartment. The furniture, the artwork, even the _wallpaper_ were things Billy had picked out for them. For Steve. Things that spoke to his pristine artistic eye and felt perfect in the space, and.

It was too much. Everything was connected and Steve couldn't pack a single thing away without feeling like he was slicing off a limb, so Steve fixed himself a drink. And another, and another still until the words fell from his mouth like rain--

_I have to get rid of all my shit._

Because none of it was Steve's. He didn't feel right getting rid of the stuff that wasn't his and aside from one extra large _Vote for Pedro_ t-shirt hanging in the back of his closet--everything was Billy's. 

Steve focused now on pouring the milk into his coffee. 

Stirring it until the color felt more like pine and less like walnut. He sighed. "I already cleaned everything up."

Which.

That was a blatant lie. Steve didn't clean even at the best of times--what was the use of making six figures a year if he couldn't hire a maid? Instantly Dustin didn't buy it. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair until he regarded Steve with narrowed eyes. 

"His easel is still in the living room."

"That was expensive--"

"And his shoes are on the rack by the door."

Steve gripped the coffee mug until his knuckles turned white. "I can't just get rid of his shoes, Henderson, that's like. So fucking--"

"If he wanted his shit he would've come back for it already." Dustin said. Simply, like Steve should just roll over and play dead.

Accept it.

Steve knew he was grasping at straws, but; "He could still want it," Steve reasoned. He wasn't going to cry in front of Dustin, he. Wouldn't be able to live it down.

Henderson didn't seem much like judging as he leaned forward, elbows plastered to the tabletop like the pressure might make the words easier to say. "He can't still want his stuff, buddy." 

Steve set the mug on the counter with a _clank._ "You don't know that."

"Sure I do--"

"You can't know that, Henderson, alright?" Steve went back to scrubbing the counters. "Billy can be kind of forgetful, maybe he just. Crashed on someone couch and forgot to come pick up the rest of his shit." 

Dustin didn't look like he was buying it so Steve spoke louder, leaned in closer, as if that could make things clear. 

"I'm not getting rid of his stuff."

Henderson sighed. "Why not? He got rid of you."

"That's not--"

"Billy isn't coming back because he doesn't remember your apartment or your life together, and. Steve." Dustin's eyes were soft and kind. So big and brown and warm and _familiar_ as he said, "Billy doesn't remember you." 

**Before.**

Steve was still getting used to the idea that, sometimes, people fucked outside of the bedroom. Veronica was as vanilla as they come--Textbook and serious. They fucked with the lights off. In missionary, under the covers, eliciting soft moans and gentle thrusts until one of them saw the light and then. Nothing. They slept in separate beds and treated sex like a chore because it _was._ And it always had been and Steve had forgotten that fucking Billy wasn't like that at all it was...like stepping out of the darkness for the first time.

Like jumping from a burning building without a parachute.

It was his hair dripping with sweat and the slick slide of a clever tongue chasing its warmth. It was Billy lapping at Steve's skin like a dog, tongue in constant restless motion, as if simply being inside of Steve wasn't enough. Like Billy needed more, needed Steve moving through him even after the condom had been tied off. 

Fucking Billy meant incoherent babble. Promises sliding past red-raw lips as Billy fucked him into the cracks in the wall, soft words and intentions that dripped from between Steve's legs when Billy pulled out.

It was loss.

It was _open your mouth_ and fingers sliding over the ridges of Steve's tongue. The deafening slap of skin against skin while Steve begged and begged like a bitch for everything Billy could give him. For the feeling that his bones were breaking, that the world was ending, and.

In Hawkins the concept of two boys shacking up wasn't unheard of, just.

Taboo.

The kind of thing people knew was happening behind brick walls and padlocked doors. It was private and personal and so _not_ in line with the way Billy liked to take Steve apart.

Billy fucked like he had nothing to hide. Like Steve was the crown jewel he had just been gifted by chance. He pressed hot and sweaty against the line of Steve's back, fucking into him hard and fast, and.

Steve tried to keep quiet.

He was still getting used to it. Still adjusting to the liquid soft drag of Billy's cock inside all his hidden places but he couldn't make the switch. Not entirely, as his pants tangled around his thighs and the brick wall rubbed just the wrong side of too hard against his skin. 

Like a cheese grater, or something.

Billy knotted his fingers in Steve's hair and pulled him tighter against his chest, Steve's head nestled in the crook of Billy's shoulder as the new angle drove him deeper. And deeper still when he bent his knees to gain some leverage. Steve went limp again, only soft little noises breaking the tension in the surrounding air. 

Somewhere between Billy getting his hand around Steve's cock and _show me, baby. Show me how good it feels,_ Steve came with a whimper and went slack against him as Billy used his body like a crash test car.

Two more brutal thrusts and Billy was pulling out, away, disappearing through the mist.

Loss. 

"Do you need a ride home?" 

"No, I think. Uh." Steve pulled his pants up immediately. "What time is it?"

Billy was smoking a cigarette. Squatting on the ladder of a fire escape with his pants still undone. He puffed on the thing for a moment, digging around for his cellphone until the tiny screen lit up. "Six twenty."

"I can still catch the seven." Steve didn't want to look. Couldn't look.

"Just lemme give you a ride." Billy held out his cigarette.

Steve took a drag. "You don't have to--"

"Don't you think we should talk about this?"

Which.

Steve had come to expect a lot of things from Billy Hargrove. Mood swings, an almost violent love for diner food, a wispy lightheartedness that he struggled to conceal from watchful brown eyes, an elusiveness that left Steve aching to retaliate, but. Maturity was a new one.

Steve passed the cigarette back with a frown. "Talk about what?" Because he didn't know.

Billy rolled his eyes. "This little game of cat and mouse we got going." 

"Thought it was foreplay, at this point." 

That earned him a snort. Billy handed him the cigarette again, the movement practiced and prepared like this was something they had been doing for years. Fucking each other's brains wide open in a pissed stained alley during rush hour. 

"I'm trying to quit." Steve puffed on it anyway, gesturing vaguely with the smoke. 

Billy leaned back on the ladder so that the smooth plane of his stomach peeked put through his undone jeans.

"Trying to quit fucking dudes who aren't your girlfriend or trying to stop smoking?"

"More than one thing can be true." Steve kept on smoking the cigarette even as he stepped into the spread of Billy's thighs. Even as he lifted the smoke to those cherry red lips.

Billy let Steve hold it as his eyes slipped closed, lips sealing around the filter. Steve considered the length of Billy's legs. The soft tangle of blonde curls pulled back with a rubber band, the delicate pink flush working its way across the bridge of Billy's nose. 

He had to make a decision.

The stick in the mud or the car crash.

"What's say you and me do this again sometime?" Steve drawled as Billy's eye's blinked open, pupils dilated around poorly concealed skepticism. 

"What, like make quick fucks in back alleyways a regularly scheduled _thing?"_

Steve shrugged, cool as a cucumber. "Yeah, like a 'had a rough day, need an even rougher night,' kinda situation." He lifted the smoke to his lips again as Billy stood and finally buttoned up, barely concealing the half chub in his pants. 

"Is that what we got now, pretty boy? A situationship?"

"Suppose so." Steve wasn't going to be the first to show his hand. To admit that this torrid _whatever_ was the best thing, the most exciting thing, to happen in years. He tucked the butt of the cigarette between Billy's lips again and pushed into his space. "Wouldn't mind fucking you again, assuming you can handle it."

Billy pushed away with a snort.

"'Course I can handle it, just don't go fallin' in love with me, alright?" His shoulders were a hard line of mock toughness as he dove for his coat, which still lay crumpled on the filthy ground. "And we need to set up some ground rules."

Steve leaned against the wall. Tried to mind the spot of come that was still drying against the red brick. "Oh yeah?"

"Sure, like, uh." Bill shrugged his coat up over his shoulders, adjusted his hair. "We don't meet up at each other's places. We fuck strictly public--"

"Some place cleaner, would be nice." Steve drawled.

Billy ignored him, electing instead to light another smoke. "Always after the sun sets. No morning after, no hand holding, no cuddling, no weekends--"

"Jesus, kid. 'S hardly a 9-5 job--"

"And--" Billy held up a finger, pushing into Steve's space to pass the cigarette. "I'm still fucking whoever I want on the side."

Steve would never admit that he'd gut Billy's _whoever_ like a fish, but.

He grinned. "Alright, baby."

Billy stared at him. "That's it?"

And he said it like he had expected a fight. A rebuff, or something, from a guy who still had a live in partner. 

Steve didn't know what to do with the knowledge that maybe Billy wanted him to fight, so he just nodded, fingers reaching out to tug lightly on the diamond stud in Billy's ear. Steve watched the color flood Billy's cheeks again. Watched the pink tip of his tongue brush against the swell of his lips in a slow, torturous arch when Steve leaned in, his own mouth brushing sweetly against the shell of Billy's ear.

"That's it." Steve said. Nice and easy.

Simple.

Billy nodded slowly, shuddering when Steve sucked the diamond into his mouth and rolled it between his teeth before pulling away with an obscene _pop._ There was something glittering in his eyes, something sharp and fragile. A warning maybe, or a plea for mercy. Steve had seen that look on the discovery channel when prey had given up hope of trying to get away. 

He recognized it now for what it was.

Loss. Billy rolled his eyes and stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "Let's get you home before Clarisse starts to worry."

"Name's Veronica," Steve said around a smirk.

Billy was already disappearing around the mouth of the alley, hands jammed into his packets as he shook his head. "Don't give a shit," and.

Steve decided to keep the smoke. 


	7. Cranberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) Linger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is I, the worst writer in the fandom!
> 
> It took a long, long time for this update to go live, and I apologize for that. It was halloween and then christmas and then valentines day, but. We made it here. I'm excited to get back into it. Please enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think!

**After.**

He asked Robin to be there. 

Not to make him feel better, not to hold his hand, but asked if she could be present to remind him that all this change had meant something in the long run. That the hole in his chest was really a space fertile for growth and not a cemetery plot for Steve to lay down and watch the clouds inch across the sky.

She only gave him an out once. A simple _you don't have to do this_ when Dustin left with three trash bags full of the fodder Steve had clung to.

Billy's jackets. His shoes, the letter he left behind. All the garbage from which Steve had built his home, and. 

He promised that it was okay.

Billy wasn't going to come back and Steve wanted to move on with his life. Build new things; get new furniture, new artwork. Toss out the whiskey and the impact of someone who expected love to come easy. To stay when he didn't put in the work. Robin passed the phone to Barbara, who said, _We'll be there. Try and get some sleep._

Steve drank the rest of what was left behind and promised that everything was going to be alright. Come what may--he would build something new.

Billy had thrown their love away, after all so the lie felt natural.

Honest, like something that should feel true.

Steve didn't get the call from Dr. Anderson's secretary until Friday, until after the maid was called and the dishes were put away and the space was made. Reserved for something that seemed hilariously out of reach.

The woman on the phone said Steve is taking the first step. A great declaration. Making all the right decisions toward welcoming the dawn, his day in the sun, and.

Hope.

The woman on the phone said that's what they were doing this for, after all.

Steve drank the rest of what was left behind and wondered how the dark would give way.

**Before.**

They'd been fucking around for three weeks without incident. Meeting in seedy bars--dark corners where faces were hidden half in shadow, cigarette smoke dusting their skin with forced detachment, and it had become just another part of their ritual. The quick fuck, the promise at the end of the night that they'd see each other again soon, and.

The lingering.

Always one more cigarette. One more drink. A little _no, sugar, stay a moment longer._ Glances, touches, biting and bruises kisses and begs and bribes for a round two-three-four, which always ended with Steve hailing a cab and Billy storming off in the Camaro, his navy blue stallion that somehow bore reluctant witness to their situation. The problem they had invented for themselves.

So. It was Tuesday night.

Steve called, like always. Caught Billy's answering machine just like he had the Wednesday before, and the Friday before that, and the Monday before _that_ because Billy was an asshole who screened his calls. Steve punched in his number and let it ring. Let the message kick over; _I'm not in. Shit or get off the pot._

Steve asked for a meetup to eat some sandwiches.

That was the code word. "Meet me at the dinner, we can grab a sandwich," and Billy picked up like he had been lurking there the entire time. Hoping Steve would throw in the towel and call the whole thing off, or something, like he always seemed to be.

Fat chance.

"Can't go out tonight," Billy said. His nose was stopped up, a little bit. Like maybe he was smelling something bad. 

"You can't or you won't?"

"Can't, unless you're trying to wear my nasal drip as a scarf. Won't, if you keep acting like a bitch." Billy sneezed into the phone, like. _Actually._ Big ole ah-choo and everything, and Steve flinched out of habit. 

Billy never took care of himself during the colder months. Maybe it was a side effect of growing up where the sun seemed to shine out of everyone's ass, but the dude got Laryngitis every winter from hitting five keggers every weekend and never wearing gloves that came with fingers. Steve switched the phone to his other ear, waiting as Veronica passed from the kitchen to her office. Once the door was shut, he grinned.

"I can take care of you."

Billy snorted, like, "I'm not a baby."

"True, but. You're my baby." Steve winced internally. That would cost him later in the form of Billy bending him in half or Billy breaking a plate over his head. "C'mon, I could stop at the Korean. Make soup, bring weed and Nyquil."

"Weed?"

Steve shrugged. "You never sleep well when you're sick."

And.

They were still navigating what was off limits. Most of the time they seemed content to forget that they had been _together_ , or something, for a while before Steve skipped town. It was the eternal struggle; does the clock start over when a relationship is brought back to life, or could Steve add two months to their standing year and half? 

He wasn't sure. What he was allowed to mention, what he was allowed to remember, but.

He remembered everything. 

Loved everything, anyway. Steve cleared his throat. "I'll drop the shit by super quick. Throw the kettle on, turn down the bed. Warm the sheets, too, if you'll let me--"

"Steve."

"I'll be outta your hair before you know it."

 _"Steve,"_ Billy deadpanned. "I can't go out tonight."

"Don't gotta go out, baby, just let me come in." Steve could feel himself splitting right down the middle with something that sat on the edge of desperation. He worked overtime to cover his tracks. "Or you could come in me, whatever works--"

"Look, I don't fucking feel good and I'm not in the mood to deal with your petty, useless bullshit tonight, Harrington. Just gonna have to find something else to stuff your fucking hole with for a while."

Billy sneezed again, which should've taken the edge off his words but didn't. Steve nodded. Over and over, feeling dizzy and confused and disoriented by the sudden change of pace. 

"Okay," Steve said softly. "Alright, I. I don't want to overstay my welcome or anything, I just--"

"What, Bambi, you fuckin' miss me or something?" 

"Don't gotta be an asshole about it." Steve would deny that it was a pout. 

Billy got like that sometimes, when things were going too well, or.

Too easy.

They both did. Poking and prodding and landing stinging punches because it was easier than just admitting that they missed each other. And Steve missed him--more and more, every time the Camaro drove off into the night.

From the other end of the line Billy snorted. Just a soft squawk, like a bird being started from its roost. "You really wanna come take care of me? I'm your patient and you'll be my incredibly hot, undertrained nurse?"

"Fuck you, alright, I'd be super good at my job."

"You're an idiot, anyone ever tell you that?"

And. Yeah.

Billy blew his nose in something soft, pulling away from the phone only to dive back in with a smirk coloring his voice bright red. "Gotta dress the part or it's no deal."

Steve could pretend he wasn't getting whiplash from this conversation, from _every_ conversation he had with Billy. He could smile and say that it got easier navigating the highs and lows of Billy's mood the more they met up to eat sandwiches, but.

He'd be lying.

Steve scrambled to grab his wallet from the coffee table. "Okay, I could, uh. I could do that. I still have my scrubs from Halloween a couple years ago--"

"You know what I mean, Bambi." Billy slurred. "Too short skirt and bustier or you can forget it."

And fuck if _that_ didn't go straight to Steve's dick.

He nodded, standing to grab his coat. "Alright. Think I know a place."

"Great. See you in twenty."

And then he was gone.

\--

Billy lived in Harlem, which.

Wasn't at all where Steve had pictured him escaping to after their nights together.

Steve double checked the address before letting the cab pull onto the street again, confused when the piece of paper in his wallet had lead him to an adorable, quaint, _gorgeous_ brownstone tucked at the end of a long row of others that looked just the same.

Straight away Steve knew. 

The houses all looked the same but this one was Billy's.

The yard itself couldn't have been more than ten feet wide, complete with a copper fence separating Billy's territory from the rest of the neighborhood and especially the lawn that was full of chew toys and child-sized plastic furniture. 

On the porch various potted plants took up space next to a plush chair in which Steve could imagine Billy sat with a book on Sunday afternoons, iced tea resting on the blue wooden table next to him. Under each window was a yellow planter full of herbs and spices, still green despite the chill.

Their vibrant color drew attention to the cool hue of the door.

Its slated wood had been painted and repainted in different shades of blue and green throughout the years so it looked like the reflection from a lake, chips in the wood serving as makeshift waves across the surface of a pool. An ocean.

The door knocker was a tiny brass surfboard.

It was a vibe that contrasted Billy in every possible sense of the word, and.

It wasn't what Steve had been expecting.

The yard was so quaint and sweet.

Tacky.

Within the boarders of his land Billy had tried to plant a garden. Pumpkins and squash grew in tandem with the season, reminding Steve of Hawkins during fall, of Harvest Festivals and six eager faces dragging him through town on Halloween.

Staked in the dark, fertile Earth was a sign Steve would recognize anywhere: _McCgreggor Pumpkin_ _Patch._

So he wasn't the only one who missed home.

Steve bit back a smile as he took the steps two at a time, spotting a shoe cozy by the door and wondering distantly if Billy had gotten his lawn decorations from QVC or Claudia Henderson.

He lifted the surfboard knocker and let it fall.

The door flew open immediately and Billy appeared, sleep rumpled with a quilt tucked around his shoulders, freckles standing out like holes in a canvas against his fever pink cheeks. Billy's hair was flat on one side, frizzy and pulling out of the tie he had snaked around the thick of it. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair, glaring like he had been startled from the dead.

Billy surveyed Steve's winter jacket and mittens combo, eyes travelling up and down and back up again. "You're not in uniform."

"I've been knocking for five minutes," Steve whined. "The hell took so long?"

More ringlets fell out of Billy's ponytail. "Was sleepin.'" He yawned.

And, okay.

He was cute. Painfully cute.

Billy immediately started coughing, causing Steve to frown and lift the bag of goodies he'd brought with. 

Billy stared at the bag like it had grown two dicks. "Walgreens?"

Steve snorted. "I had to get some medicine, remember?"

Billy leaned against the door jam. "Where's my nurse's costume, dude?"

"I have it on under my coat."

"Really?" Billy's cheeks got warmer, bridging on fire truck red. 

Steve almost felt bad. "No," He chuckled, frowning when Billy started coughing again. "Now let me in, man, you'll catch your death out here."

"'S not that bad."

"It's February."

"It's warm inside," Billy muttered deliriously, turning to pad through the hallway. "Stick your shit, fucking. Somewhere. Anywhere, I don't care." He gestured with the arm trapped under his blanket to a wall of shoes. Docs and converse and wicker sandals that must have been four sizes too small. 

Steve toed his boots off, sticking his jacket next to a peg labeled _Mad Max >:(_

"Max is in New York?" Steve asked. He turned to find himself alone in the hallway.

Steve padded to the living room, peering at a hideous green couch that looked and probably felt like a bag of marshmallows. Billy was making a lot of noise elsewhere in the apartment, banging things around and swearing to himself. Steve tucked the Walgreens bag under his arm and followed Billy's noise to its source. Namely, an idiot trying to light the stove with quilt hands.

Steve pushed him out of the way with a click of his tongue. "Sure, light yourself on fire. That's exactly the plan I had for my weekend."

"Wanna eat my soup," Billy pouted. "You brought the soup, right?"

"Yeah?"

"So lets eat it then," Billy snarled, stopping to cough right in Steve's face, which. 

He was cute as shit but he wasn't _that_ cute.

Steve pushed him away, angling Billy's head dramatically with two fingers on his jaw. "Point that thing somewhere else, will ya?"

"You sound like Max." 

"Who's in New York, apparently."

"Of course she's in New York," Billy Billy quipped, slapping Steve's hand with his little quilt fingers. "If you thought I'd leave the squirt flailing in cow shit for the rest of her life with Sinclair you're dumber than I thought, Harrington."

Steve turned to rummage through the cabinets. "She and Lucas broke up?"

"Yeah, for two glorious years to 'find themselves,' but I guess it didn't stick." Billy grumbled. His lip poked out with melancholy and Steve wanted to suck on it. "Kid moved out here after graduation."

Steve couldn't believe it.

"Fuck. Dustin's in college now, studying physics or some shit at UVM." Steve set to work opening the cans of soup, thinking he should probably learn the major now that Dustin was a sophomore.

"Forgot you still hang out with the dweebs," Billy poked Steve with something that felt like a toe but not really, what with all the fabric forming a makeshift slipper around his foot. 

"We don't hang much anymore. It's mostly just me and Dustin." Steve reported glumly. 

It was hard to keep track of where his kids were these days, spread to the corners of the earth as they were. Dustin in Vermont. Mike and El in Milwaukee. Erica in Portland. Will in Dallas, and.

Max and Billy, who were somehow right under his nose the whole time.

He swallowed against the misery of how long it had been since he last saw them together, when they were young enough that Billy's main export involved threatening to hack loogies in Max's hair, and Max retaliated by running over the toes of his boots with her skateboard.

Steve was always there to settle the disputes, oversee the bets, and bake the birthday cakes. For a while they were thick as thieves, Hawkins' very own Three Musketeers. When Max found out they were dating it was an afternoon of hugs and happy tears. She had rooted for them long before anyone else; Max was their greatest supporter, Steve's favorite person to get high with, and okay.

Billy and Steve were still working out what was off limits. 

Holding hands, kissing outside of the bedroom-car-alleyway-bathroom-train station, and meeting up at each other's apartments _especially_ during the day were contraband, so.

It was safe to assume that Max, as always, was pretty high on that list. But they'd already broken two of their rules today and Steve wanted to ask, needed to ask, because Max had cut all contact with him when Steve left Billy crying in the street.

He missed her. 

"She know about us?" Steve wondered delicately

Billy handed him the spoon with a small, whispering smile. "What's there to know?" 

And. 

Steve fought to ignore the sting in his chest. "Fair enough."

Billy saddled up on the counter, making himself a nuisance by closing the cabinets before Steve had a chance to really look inside. He snatched the spoon from Billy, wracking him on the thigh it until he disclosed the location of their biggest pot. Steve pulled it down and lit the stove, waiting for the pan to heat up before dumping the soup cans into their neat little bird bath.

It smelled heavenly and Steve, was.

Well.

Not happy, but something like it. Something close enough, while Billy set to work judging his every move. All, "You're not using enough salt," and, 'Put some turmeric in that bitch."

'Why?" Steve asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"'S good for inflammation." 

And Billy was still smoking despite not being able to breathe out of both nostrils. Steve opened a few cabinets at random before stumbling across a silver spice rack. He held the little bottle of orange powder in his hand, considering how much was too much, before sprinkling a few granules into the pot.

Billy sighed dramatically. "No, Bambi, you gotta really get in there."

"God, wouldja let me put the shit in the bowl?" Steve whined, moving to put the cap back on the bottle. "I'd ask you to do it but I don't wanna become patient zero."

"It's just a cold, don't be such a wimp."

"It's about to be a foot in the ass if you don't let me cook." Steve said, demanding silence from the room. He considered the turmeric once more before deciding that, okay. Maybe they could handle a little spice. Steve watched until a tiny mountain of gold appeared in the center of their soup. 

He turned to Billy, eyebrow raised. "What say you?"

Billy craned his neck. "Do some paprika next."

Steve put the lid on the pot, turning to stare at his sick little asshole of a. Boyfriend? Fuckbuddy? "You know, for someone who won't even be able to taste this shit because your nose has gone on strike, you have an awful lot to say."

Billy waggled his tongue, eyes alight with something that turned Steve's inside to jelly.

Billy slipped off the counter and bullied his way into Steve space just like last week. Just like always. Steve tried not to swallow his tongue with the way Billy was looking at him; like he wanted to toss Steve out the window but also open him up on thick, rugged fingers.

Billy leaned in close. Still smelling good despite the feverish flush on his cheeks, the spring of sweat curling the loose tendrils from his ponytail and tinting them dark against the nape of his neck.

"I'll shut up if you give me something better to do," Billy drawled.

Steve couldn't tell if the husk in Billy's voice was from infatuation or the fact that he was likely exhausted and needed rest, ignoring the heat in his belly to do what he came here for. Steve lifted a hand slowly, carefully, brushing the flat of his knuckles across Billy's forehead.

Dude was burning up.

"When's the last time you drank water?" Steve asked, and.

Billy leaned in to bite the shallow of his jaw, the sting of it going right to Steve's dick. "Couple hours ago."

Steve clicked his tongue, pulling away with a frown. "Point me in the direction of your medicine cabinet, Romeo."

"I don't have a medicine cabinet, I'm not a--"

Steve thrust a box into the folded arms of Billy's quit, turning back to the stove with a shake of his head. "Half a cup of water and two of those guys should do the trick. Go lay down on the couch, soup'll be ready in a couple minutes."

Billy made a noise. "And miss you struggling to heat canned soup? Fat chance."

Which.

Steve wasn't _struggling._ He ate tons of this shit during his first year in the city, so. He was basically a world renowned chef; Boyardee or something. Billy shuffled up behind him. Close enough that Steve could feel the train of Billy's blanket rubbing against the heels of his sock feet. 

The urge to turn around and kiss him was overwhelming.

Like a knife lodged in his skull, twisting and turning until his brain was chopped suey.

The rules had been broken, today.

The lists ignored until the line between what they were and what they were becoming was indiscernible from the space around them. Steve kept stirring the soup, pretending to be very interested in what he was doing. "Go lay down and get some rest."

"What's in it for me?" Billy asked. "Besides my own health, which. Is a fucking drag compared to what I could get outta you."

Steve put the lid back on the pot.

Turning, and. Biting against the urge to take Billy's face in his hands. To kiss his soft, rosy pink lips. Steve allowed his hands to wander lower, curling around the jut of Billy's strong hip bones until they were flush where they had agreed to be. 

Safe and calculated.

"Go lay down like a good boy and I'll blow you." Steve concluded, ignoring the voice in his head which screamed about germs and fevers reaching 100 degrees, but.

Billy smiled at him.

Steve wanted to call it a smirk. A snarl. A bit of fire, which was all Billy had given him, but.

This was different.

Sweet, and soft, and. Something neither of them had any control over. Billy pulled away with a wink before filling a glass with water. He took both pills like a man, swallowing them dry and then taking a long, wet drink from his glass.

Steve watched the bulb of his throat move up and down, up and down, and then.

Billy was sulking off to the living room.

Steve turned back to the soup and wondered if they were ready for whatever was coming.


End file.
